


someday

by moonvalentine



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, yes this is set in LA. yes they eat in-n-out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 36,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26315614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonvalentine/pseuds/moonvalentine
Summary: After a major hit to his career as an idol, Kise temporarily relocates to LA, hoping to fade into obscurity while things blow over. What he doesn't expect to find are the people he left behind in high school - or the things he's been missing ever since.
Relationships: Aida Riko & Kise Ryouta, Aida Riko/Hyuuga Junpei/Kiyoshi Teppei, Aomine Daiki/Kise Ryouta, Himuro Tatsuya & Kise Ryouta, Himuro Tatsuya/Kagami Taiga, Kagami Taiga & Kise Ryouta
Comments: 32
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a LONG time coming. i wrote this for a very, VERY special friend who has been waiting very, VERY patiently for me to put this on the page and now We Are Here. i hope you like it!! 
> 
> this will be uploaded in five parts. the back half is still not finished but i am hoping not to jinx myself and to have it finished sooner rather than later. in any case, please leave a comment if you feel compelled to do so, i appreciate those like i appreciate a good hug ♥

_“Good morning, passengers,”_ came the voice over the intercom, calm but pleasant. _“It is 10:28 AM, right on time; we have landed in Los Angeles, and it is a beautiful, sunny seventy-eight degrees.”_

Another polite voice recited the same in Japanese, though with a bit less of a buoyancy in her tone. Very straightforward, professional. Perhaps a bit tired. They were still on Japan time, really — and that meant almost 2:30 in the morning, the next day, with no sleep. Or at least that was the case for Kise. He dug a fingertip into the tiny throb above his eye, feeling a little raw.

_“We will be arriving at our gate momentarily. Please keep your seatbelts fastened until we have turned off the seatbelt lights above you. And, as always, thank you for flying with our airline.”_

A relief, an exhausted restlessness, settled over the cabin of the plane, conversations starting as the second flight attendant translated again. Some people had pulled their phones out the moment the plane’s front wheel had grazed the runway, but everyone was pulling theirs out now, chatting lowly and sliding up window covers, stretching limbs and sighing off the last of their yawns now that light was flooding the interior of the cabin. 

Kise did not want to look at his phone. God only knew what was waiting for him there. His PR manager, Tomiko, and his company agent, Isao, were hopefully leaving him alone. Surely there were texts from his mother — _is this true?_ — or some hesitant laughs from friends and acquaintances in the business who knew just how the rumor mill spun. Nothing he wanted to answer. Nothing he wanted to see. 

He chanced a look over his shoulder, pinpointing those girls sitting in the back of first class who had noticed him getting up to use the bathroom earlier in the flight. Sure enough, they were staring straight at him, five whole hours later, hands over their mouths as they smiled and giggled excitedly and whispered to each other. He sighed, slouching further back into his seat, feeling the sting in his tailbone from sitting too long. It was more likely than not that they’d already posted their sighting to social media with their complimentary wifi. 

Lovely. Just perfect.

“Don’t worry about them,” Kaito, his bodyguard, told him in a muted voice. “I’ll make sure you leave first once we’re good to go.”

Kise sighed through his nose, trying not to whine aloud. Sometimes, especially today, he wanted to bury his face in Kaito’s broad, built chest and hide in it like a child. Maybe if he asked nicely, Kaito would piggyback him through the airport, let him retreat under the hood of his own designer sweatshirt. That probably wouldn’t be doing him any favors, though. The media was already having a field day with his character. 

He tried to quell the rising dread in his gut, studying the slow blur of concrete on the ground outside the plane instead. And then it rolled to a stop, and the tone of the seatbelt sign turning off queued a myriad of impatient clicks and movement, and the dread made its way out, flying up his esophagus in a thick burn.

“I’ll get your things,” Kaito said steadily, but Kise could sense the mild anxiety behind it. 

“No, _you_ can’t get weird!” he hissed. “If you panic, what the hell am I supposed to do?! You’re supposed to be my _rock,_ Kaito _cchi —_ ”

 _“Relax,”_ came the firm command. Whether it was for Kaito himself or for Kise, he couldn’t be sure. Kaito didn’t give him another chance to think about it, though. Before anyone else could even stand, Kaito had unlatched the overhead bin, slung their bags over his shoulder, and pulled Kise with him toward the front of the plane. 

Kise wasn’t imagining the whispers that came with his hasty exit. Was he? He chanced, stupidly, a glance back at those peppy, twitting girls through the sudden rush of bodies standing in the aisle, finding their gasping smiles of delight upon eye contact. Shit. 

“Ah, Kise-san!” their pilot said, bowing with a hand to his chest as he approached the exit. “Is that really you? I didn’t believe it when the chief attendant said — ” 

“We’re in a rush to a connecting flight,” Kaito interrupted, authoritative. “So if you don’t mind — ”

“My daughters love you — ”

“Ah, sorry, I’m — ” Kise had the back of Kaito’s windbreaker in a death grip. “Thank you, but — ”

An attendant, presumably the chief one, now chief of his misery, decided now was the time to chime in. “I’m a huge fan, Kise-sama! I love — ”

He was starting to get lightheaded. This tiny little walkway was too small for human bodies, really — were more people trying to press in? — he could hear the whispering — 

The door finally opened, gray light spilling all over the crowded space. His lungs shook like he’d broken the surface of water. 

“Thank you, everyone,” Kaito called over the growing din, always the diplomat. And then Kise was being pushed out and down the long ramp into the terminal. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. 

The feeling of walking through airports was the most familiar thing in the world. Going through customs less so, but Kaito managed to finagle their way to the head of the massive line and get them through quickly. Kise had no problem letting his bodyguard take the reins. It was all he could do to watch where he stepped, eyes on the ground, light tinted behind the cover of his sunglasses, chin tucked to his chest, breath uncomfortably warm inside his face mask. 

Fansites were waiting for him at arrivals. That was inevitable. He didn’t look at them, didn’t even think of making the effort to do so, but he knew that same handful of girls would be there with their enormous professional-grade cameras and unwavering calm. There would be the little rippling pond of other squealing fans who had come to see if they could just get a word from him — and normally, he’d be happy to oblige. Today, he was settling for wading through the roadblock while attached to Kaito’s back, giving a polite wave every few seconds for good measure. They would understand, he hoped. They always had before.

His mind was in a fog by the time they made it to the curb outside. He was numb, maybe. Tired from the flight, too. Exhausted from the last two weeks of his life. He’d almost blocked out the odd niggling sense at the back of his head that he was still being watched, photographed, recorded as their discreet black ride pulled up. It almost felt like nothing was wrong for a moment — that he’d managed to truly escape, or that he’d made it all up, that nothing had actually happened to bring him to this moment. 

But then, just as he was sliding into the backseat of the car, he heard the words he’d been dreading all along:

“Kise-san,” a reporter asked, approaching fast, her Japanese sharp, distinct, unexpected amid a sea of English and everything else, “what is your response to the rumors regarding your — ”

Kaito shut the car door before she could stick her microphone inside. And then he put himself in the passenger seat with a harsh grunt, effectively hiding them both with their driver behind the tinted windows. 

Kise let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He shoved his shaking hands beneath his thighs, doing his best to ignore the persistent tapping against the glass.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly, resolved. “Please.”

 _Tap, tap, tap_ they went. Hands and faces pressed against the window, hoping to see anything that would give them a clue. _Tap, tap, tap,_ fast as his heartbeat. The driver wasn’t half as quick, but he managed to peel away from that crowded curb when he could, and for that, Kise was grateful.

+

The house was lovely. Less opulent than he had expected, in all honesty, but perhaps that was part of the whole _punishment_ thing. In any case, he was grateful for the way the rental was only subtly wealthy among the flashy houses in the general vicinity. It afforded him a certain level of discretion. Hidden in plain sight. And also behind a high, modern metal fence, as well as artfully planted trees and bushes around the circumference of the house and its backyard — and, most importantly, a large gate with a state-of-the-art security system.

This was a fortress. A prison, really, wrapped in a very pretty package.

Kise dropped his satchel on one of the barstools in the kitchen, barely sparing a glance at the poured concrete floor or the sleek wood of the countertops. All he really cared about were two things: curtains on the large windows at the back side of the house — check — and the relief of an open concept layout. No surprises. Nothing to hide. He chucked his headphones off his neck, letting them rattle on the island. 

Kaito must have heard him sigh, because he instantly clicked his phone off and pocketed it with a raised eyebrow. 

“Are you hungry?” Kise was already shaking his head, but that never mattered. “I was just looking up delivery around here. Maybe sushi?”

 _Yeah, right._ There was no way Kaito wasn’t checking in with the folks back home. Kise rubbed at the corner of one eye. 

“I think I’m just — gonna go to bed.” There was no chance in hell he was going to look at his own phone. He would keep that snugly in the pocket of his jeans until further notice. Maybe he could not-so-accidentally put them through the wash together once he found the laundry room. “You should eat, though, Kaitocchi. You drank a lot of coffee on the flight.”

“Kise,” Kaito half-warned, his dark brows frowning as deeply as his stern mouth. Kise paid it no mind, though. 

“Goodniiight,” he sang instead, reaching for his suitcase and dragging it along the smooth floor. 

It took a little bit of navigating down the long, spacious hallways to find the bedroom he wanted among the three other empty ones, all brightly lit with freshly made beds. Los Angeles was just as sunny as he remembered it, but this time it seemed a little _too_ bright, winking migraine-painful against his eyes as light bounced off the walls of the house, all of them white as eggshells. The room he chose was the largest, and it was painted a cool gray, just a little easier on the eyes. 

More importantly, it had automatic blackout blinds, the remote for which sat perfectly on the table beside the big plush bed. 

Kise locked the bedroom door behind him, slid off his designer sweats, pressed the button, drenched himself in darkness. He crawled into bed, shivering at the coolness of the fresh sheets against the thin cotton of his t-shirt and his long, bare legs. And then he lay there, trying to slow the thumping of his heart through the sheer force of will, wanting more than anything to just get as tired as he felt.

It took a while of tracing the thin outline of light around the edges of the covered windows, of letting his mind sit, coagulated, thick with thought and dread and every other stomach-turning thing it could possibly hold. It took a while to let himself drift off into the nothing of this liminal moment, of this dark, silent bedroom with its running fan, this place so far away from home. But he did eventually succumb to the exhaustion. And with room for it to finally take over, settling into every muscle, he could give himself permission to drift off, once and for all, and sleep.

+

There were many words that equated to an idol’s pure and utter nightmare: _Disaster. Faux pas. Flop. Sellout. Has-been._

But for Kise Ryouta — model, actor, celebrity golden boy of Japan, known by the mononym KISE — there was one that was unequivocally worse than any other. 

_Scandal._

“You know what this means, right?” Isao had practically roared, slamming his laptop onto the coffee table. Kise had flinched, wondering if something would break. “Tell me you know what this means.”

“It’s not _real,”_ Kise said again, feeling distinctly like it was starting to sound like begging. His mouth tasted bitter. “People start things like this all the time. It doesn’t change anything. And you know it.”

“Actually,” Tomiko finally said from her solemn post on the loveseat across the table, “it does change things.”

Both men stared at her, tension so thick in the air it hurt to breathe it. Kise’s hands had left imprints in the armrests of his leather chair. He knew they had.

She opened her eyes, the disappointment clear as day. “There are already sources saying you’re being dropped from the movie. And the upcoming cover spread. They didn’t even come to us first.”

Isao clapped once, loudly, with finality; he barked a humorless laugh. His face was reddening with anger and the strain it took to hold it back, even barely. 

“Perfect!” He brushed his hair off his forehead where it had fallen. “Excellent. This will be the first of many. _Many,_ many, many.” Then he started to pace. “And I get to deal with the fucking fallout. I’m the one who has to explain that it’s not _real,_ that you didn’t have a goddamn _affair — ”_

“I didn’t,” Kise told him, firm, trying to stay calm. “I _didn’t.”_

But of course, Isao chose not to hear him. He just stood over by the window behind his desk, looking out with arms crossed hard, talking to Kise and Tomiko and himself, and no one, all at once. 

“I mean — _married?_ Are you fucking kidding me?” 

Kise closed his eyes, swallowing around a massive, tumorous wedge in his throat. 

This was his nightmare. It was the worst possible thing. And it wasn’t even real. 

Even now, though, he was doubting himself. How could he not? The pressure was unbearable, coming down hard on him from every way imaginable, hit after hit. 

His mind retraced the night like he was watching it on film — his beautiful co-star had answered the door; her husband walked up behind her, shook Kise’s hand with a solid grip. There was no deception. No _cheating,_ no _affair._ Just dinner, and smiles, and some fleeting, curious looks that were just a few degrees past warm, flirty but well-meaning, all of which dissolved in good conversation. It had been the small, uncomplicated luxury of being able to meet outside of work, of having a social meeting that wasn’t contractually obligated. It was wine and delicious food. It was making friends. And they had all enjoyed it. 

There was just that incriminating kiss at the door — an innocent peck on the cheek, an upward press to meet Kise’s famous height, that some snooping asshole had managed to snap on their camera, perverting what had been a lovely evening. That was the simple truth.

Right?

He opened his eyes, a shaking exhale leaving his chest. 

The room was still, hot, silence pulsing like a bruise. 

Isao finally turned, a thin, sharp half-silhouette in the daylight, not even deigning to move enough to fully face Kise. 

“How could you do this to me?” was all he asked, but the weight of it was so unbelievably condemning, so sickening, Kise couldn’t manage to find even a single word to respond with. 

He sat there with tears pressing into the backs of his eyes. He sat there while Isao and Tomiko looked on with judgment, and when they finally gave up and started milling around to do damage control, he still sat in that chair, fingers digging painfully into the hard leather. 

“Get out of my sight,” Isao said after a while, picking up the corded phone on his desk. Tomiko threw a look at him. 

“Stop that.” Her voice was on the deep side. It always made her sound so serious. “The damage is done. Being rude to him isn’t going to help anything.” She gave a harsh sigh. “Besides, I’m the one who has to do the real dirty work. I hope you realize your image is pretty much unsaveable now, Kise.”

Oh, he realized. He had realized it the second he’d seen the first picture surface.

 _“Out of my sight,”_ Isao told him anyway, rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows as he wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder. “Get Yamamoto to take you home, and do not leave that apartment for a single fucking thing until I tell you you can. Are we clear?”

Kise let go of the armrests, feeling the blood rush back into his fingers. He stuffed his trembling hands in his pockets as he stood.

It was the worst possible thing. And it wasn’t even real. Kise wasn’t sure what part of it exactly was the part he’d done wrong, but he knew what had come out of it. And he knew, most certainly of all, that he felt more guilty about it than anything he’d ever done.

“Crystal,” he said, and then he left without another look or glance behind him, not another word to defend himself. There was no point in the end.

+

It was raining in LA. Or maybe he was dreaming. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. 

In any case, he wouldn’t really know. He hadn’t opened his blinds. 

He didn’t know how many days he’d been sleeping — only that it had been several, some helped along by the big purple bottle of cold medicine in his suitcase, some stagnated by the simple inability to do nothing else but lie there, waiting for his body to give back in to the darkness. 

His door was locked, so Kaito — ever-respectful, dutiful Kaito, who never crossed a line no matter how badly he wanted to — had taken it upon himself to leave food outside his door, a thoughtful gesture after a meal he’d taken himself, or just a way to let Kise know that despite his obvious wishes, he wasn’t being left entirely alone. Kise ate some of it, whatever it was, but tasted none of it. His hunger was vague and thin, and his short hours awake were hazy, always at some time deep in the evening. He could tell so by how dark the hallway was when he went to collect whatever little meals awaited him. 

He had the fabulous idea one of these nights to go to the kitchen. Walking there felt like a long hour in a dream state, and the white light inside the fridge nearly blinded him. Fruit, vegetables, juices, water, eggs, fish. Absolutely nothing of interest. He grimaced deeply and closed the fridge, then continued his search, opening doors and drawers until he found what he was looking for: the liquor cabinet. 

He ended up back in his bedroom with a bottle of vodka and a large glass. He locked the door again, encasing himself in darkness. But now it was too dark to see. He flipped on a light.

 _Jesus._ This room was a mess. Clothes were strewn everywhere, unworn and spilling out of his suitcase; his bed was rumpled and torn apart by restless turning; cold medicine had spilled out of the bottle and was now a sticky trail down the front of the nightstand. 

Kise stared at it all for a long moment. And then he decided, suddenly, that a bath sounded like a good idea. Clean what he could instead of what he didn’t care to.

The bathroom was gorgeous — all warm pinkish marble, spacious rainfall shower, big basin sink, huge soaker tub. He stripped off his wrinkled shirt, smelling the sweat on it from all the sleep and travel, and kicked his underwear off with it before climbing into the bath.

He turned the water on, letting it run over his legs. The cold made him jump at first, but then it gradually grew warm, and then hot enough to steam. It was probably burning his flesh. He didn’t care. He plugged the drain and sat patiently, unscrewing the cap on the bottle of liquor and pouring himself a tall, healthy cup of it. 

He may or may not have coughed and gagged a little at the first gulp, at the way it clung to his throat like fire. But it was nothing after that. He drained more than half of the glass before his ankles were even submerged. By the time the tub filled up, he’d made a decent dent in the bottle itself. 

His head started to spin from the alcohol and the heat. Good. He didn’t want to think about anything. He wanted blissful emptiness, ignorance, for this void to swallow him up without a trace. 

But there was only so long he could be awake before his brain began to turn again, enough to bring things floating to the surface like dead fish, bone and guts seeping into the water all around their skeletons.

Tomiko’s resigned voice, her perpetually grave brown eyes. _This is the best we can do._

Isao’s unhappy mouth, his hands wringing together in unexpressed anger. _Laying low is your best option. Thankfully no one cares about you in America._

Sara-chan, his co-star, her sweet, sad face on the other end of their video call. _I’m so sorry, Kise-kun. We’re doing everything we can to clear it up. I promise._

It was just as Tomiko had said, though. The damage was done. The story with Sara had sparked an onslaught of slander, of stories from people he didn’t even know, but who had apparently known him. Evidence, fake or not. And it was everywhere.

Kise took another lengthy swig, eyeing the black rectangle settled innocuously on the ledge of the tub, distorted in the glass of the vodka bottle. And then, against his better judgment, he grabbed it with damp fingers, pressed the button to turn it on. 

The inner walls of his chest shook as the screen of his phone lit up. The logo sat there, waiting patiently while everything loaded — and then there was the lock screen, waiting for his password. 

_Buzz. Buzz. Buzz-buzz. Buzz._ Notifications flooded in. Constant. Tens. Maybe hundreds. _Buzz. Buzz._ All hidden behind the wall of secrecy — his one modicum of privacy, ever, and even then he was fooling himself. _Buzz-buzz. Buzz._ A silent, desperate breath rose in Kise’s throat, and he let his head sink back against the edge behind him, felt his face crumple, his lips tremble. Each notification was loud and grating against the marble, erratic and terrible, the hungry breaths of a monster beneath his bed. 

He didn’t realize until after they’d stopped that his breath had gone thin and fast. He drank to drown it. It tasted like fucking antiseptic, even after the amount he’d had, but it gave him the tiny spark of clarity he needed to look at what awaited him.

Texts. 

_Yo, Kise, what is this?_

_Hey. Hope you’re doing okay...what’s going on?_

_Where are you?? Please don’t tell me you’re dead._

_Wtf??? Not real right? LOL_

_Call me immediately._

Emails. 

_Kise-san,_ _we regret to inform you…_

_The contract will need to be discussed…_

_We are holding a meeting today to discuss your ambassadorship going forward._

News. 

_SCANDAL! Idol KISE Seen Sharing Kiss Leaving Actress Harada Sara’s House!_

_Marriage on the Rocks? Harada Sara Only Complicates Rumors Regarding Involvement with Idol Co-Star KISE_

_What Was KISE Hiding From Us All This Time?_

_KISE’s Agents Deny Any —_

Nothing else. He didn’t want to see another goddamn thing. 

Panic clawed up his esophagus. He dunked himself beneath the water, scrubbed his hands over his scalp, blew air out from his nose so hard a stream of bubbles shattered against his face. 

What would it take to be rid of this? To be free from this guilt, this shame so pervasive it filled every cavity in his hollow body? He would literally have to reset, start over, nothing remaining of the mistakes that had led him here. None of the bone-deep flaws that would never let him see the ends he worked so hard to try for. He was suffocating. He was — 

Going to puke.

He surfaced with a heaving gasp, clambering and sliding against the wet tub as he tried to pull himself out. He was such a fucking idiot. The knee he hit on the way up, the way he slipped and fell on the naked floor, the way he missed the toilet entirely and threw up all down its side — he was such a fucking _idiot._ Tears ran down his face from the force of his retching. He could’ve sworn some organs came up with everything else. It didn’t stop for a long time. 

At some point he fell asleep on the cold, smooth, dripped-wet floor; at some point he woke up freezing, body bare and shaking, and threw up again. He was trapped in some stagnant dimension, a perfect little hell that was quickly making him wish he were more and more dead. It was officially the worst he’d ever felt. And that was saying something.

Eventually, the cold was too much to take — he crawled toward the sink, hoisted himself up with quivering arms and legs, wrenched the hot water faucet the furthest it would go. He ran his hands beneath the stream, used his palms to spread it up and over his arms, along his neck and chest, the dried vomit on his chin. He spat into the sink, rinsed his mouth out several times — the taste of acid had made a home between his teeth. Then he splashed water over his face, burning it hot, like if he tried hard enough he could singe it off and start completely fresh, down to the muscle. He felt his palms clap the skin over his cheeks and jaw, hard enough to make sparks fly behind his closed eyes. 

He turned off the sink. And then it was just him and his ragged breath, and the huge mirror in front of him, reflecting a stranger.

Kise stared at himself. He raked the damp strings of his hair off his forehead, revealing the skin just barely flushed and clammy beneath. He looked gaunt and disgusting. Hideously so. His complexion was dull, his eyes looked sunken and too dark, his lips were thin from dehydration. He could see a little line of blemishes along his hairline. The pockmark by his mouth from when he’d tried his hand at a pop-rock single and decided a lip ring would look good — neither of which worked — that was the only thing he could tell was him. The rest was a mess of bones and a lack of sunlight, no life inside. He’d emptied it all out on the floor. 

He slunk a towel off the rack, big and fluffy and white, blessedly soft, and wrapped it around his body. _Tomorrow,_ he thought to himself, static at the back of his tongue. _I’ll deal with this tomorrow. Or maybe the next day._ The sight of himself had thrown him off and made him dizzy. He sat down — just for a second, and then he’d get back up, go to bed, face this later. The other towel was just within reach, easy enough to pull down with his fingertips and drape over his legs. He did so, and then he leaned back, felt his forehead touch the bathmat he’d unwittingly scrunched beneath the vanity. 

_Soon enough,_ he reasoned, vision fading fast, _I’ll deal with this all._

+

It was raining in LA. Badly. There was a storm — some kind of typhoon, a hurricane sweeping him away, jostling him through the wind in its wild current, whistling deafeningly in his ears. 

Something swept up and hit him in the face. His eyes flew open. 

A man was looking down at him, dark-haired and — Kaito. Kaito, with a cutting white light behind him, and a cool silence. No storm. Just Kise’s own racing pulse, thin and hard, and his throbbing cheek. He blinked, trying to tie his brain back to his body and figure out what the hell was going on. 

“ — right?” he heard Kaito say steadily, voice echoing just a bit. Kise felt his eyebrows crunch. Oh, his head was pounding. His mouth tasted like something had died in it. Everything smelled like stomach acid. 

Ah, yes. He closed his eyes, sighing hard enough to trigger a roll of nausea beneath his diaphragm. 

“Are you alright?” Kaito repeated, firmly this time. “Can you hear me _,_ Kise?”

Kise turned his face into the cold marble of the floor, groaning. “Define ‘alright.’”

“Well.” No amusement in that response. Great. “Come on. We need to get you to the hospital. Now.”

 _“No.”_ It was automatic and visceral, raw. “I don’t want anyone to see me. And Isao...he’ll know if I — ”

“You need to see a doctor. I could — I could barely feel your pulse just now. I thought — ” Kaito’s voice swelled, and he stopped. It was quieter when he began again. “You are clearly extremely dehydrated. And I’m guessing you have some kind of alcohol poisoning. You’ve barely eaten since we arrived here nearly a week ago. Your leg has been bleeding for however long you’ve been lying here.”

 _Bleeding?_ What? Kise dragged his head to an angle, just enough to see oxidized red all over the floor. 

Lovely. Excellent. He’d broken either the cup or the bottle on his way out of the tub. His head flopped back down into Kaito’s waiting palm.

“You’re shaking so hard I can _hear_ it.” There was a moment of hesitation, and then Kaito hovered his other hand over Kise’s side. “Did you...were you trying to harm yourself?”

Kise felt his stomach sink. “What?” His voice was a pure, thin rasp. “No. Not — intentionally. No. I just...I was trying to forget for a little while, and I fucked up.”

He could hear the whine in his voice, which meant Kaito heard it tenfold. Hopefully that was enough to prove he was being truthful. In any case, it didn’t stop the man from hoisting him up, arms under neck and knees, and carrying him to the edge of his bed. God, he was so sore. 

His brain felt heavy, like his body was remembering it was there, that it had weight. His vision sparkled at the edges as Kaito bent down to dig through his suitcase, throwing clothes at him piece by piece. 

“Where’s your wig?” Kaito said, elbow deep in fabric. 

Any other time, Kise would’ve blushed. That wasn’t supposed to have been common knowledge. “Side pocket on the bottom half.”

Within seconds, the soft black mass fell onto his lap, right on top of everything else. He stared at it. Touched it with a glitching hand. 

The hair was lifeless beneath his fingers. Comfortingly so.

He put it on first.

+

He didn’t remember much of that day, after that. Only the blues and greens of the little clinic, the IV drip seeping into his arm. The tender pressure of bandage and gauze against the skin above his ankle. The hot, sour breath trapped behind his face mask, fogging up his sunglasses. The barely-audible tap of thumbs on the glass of Kaito’s phone screen. The wan sunlight through the tinted windows of whatever car they’d been given. 

Silence. 

The way the house was clean when they got home, immaculate, even more so in his own room and bathroom. Not a trace of mess or turmoil, or whatever it was he wanted to call it.

He remembered very clearly, though, the liquor cabinet, open and empty. The crisp, tasteless cool of water on his tongue. The feeling of clean sheets on his legs. The door to his bedroom cracked, not shut, as he fell asleep again. 

And then it was the next day, and he was being woken up by a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on,” said Kaito the moment Kise stirred, eyes slitted open. “Let’s go.”

Kise didn’t ask where they were going. Kaito practically dragged him into the kitchen, warm and too bright, and sat him at the table in front of a plate of egg omelette. 

Kise stared at it, blinking dumbly down at the plate, and then down at his thin, naked thighs beneath the hem of his large sweatshirt, and then up at Kaito, who was watching him intently, eyes dark and arms crossed. 

“Listen.” He leaned one hip against the island. “I think...we should find you something to do. This isn’t healthy.”

The huff that left Kise’s throat surprised both of them with its gruffness. “Did Isao say something? Is that what this is?”

“I’m not his lapdog, Kise. And I don’t appreciate your lack of trust.” His eyebrows were thick and low over his stare. “I haven’t told him anything besides when we arrived and that your phone was turned off. I can tell him about finding you half-dead on your bathroom floor, though, if you’d like.”

Kise’s stomach sank. He pressed a fingertip into the lip of his plate. 

“I know this goes beyond my job description, but we’ve known each other long enough now that I — ” Kaito sighed, looking at the floor. “It’s not unheard of to worry about you, with everything that’s been going on.”

 _Everything that’s been going on._ What was he referring to: the endless barrage of shame, or its unsightly aftermath? 

There was silence long enough for the initial thrust of defensiveness to digress back to its rightful place, and for him to really _look_ at Kaito, to think about what he was saying. The man, big and unyielding as he was, looked a bit smaller than Kise had really ever seen him: folded in on himself, shoulders hunched and face long. 

_Worry._ He was worried about Kise. And was maybe the only person in the world who was. 

“I’m — ” Kise swallowed hard, so empty and so unhungry, eyes closing from the weight in his lids. “I’m sorry, Kaitocchi. I’ll do better from now on.”

“Kise, that’s not — ”

“Just…” His voice filled itself with the pressure that stopped at his wet lashes. “Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it. I’ll do better.” He put his face in his hand, failing to push back a soft, pathetic sob. “I promise.”

He turned his face fully into the palm that held it, let his fingers hide his eyes. And he sat in the quiet, tense and aching, until he heard the shuffle of Kaito moving. He felt that presence, solid behind him, lingering until it laid a hand on his shoulder — just for a second — and then scraped a chair out to sit beside him. They sat there in silence, heavy, awkward, until Kise couldn’t bear it anymore, until he picked up his fork as compromise and decided to eat.

His omelette tasted like the snot caught in his throat. He ate the whole thing anyway. 

+

“Have you ever thought about being a model?”

Every time he strolled through the city streets with friends. Every time he would go out for after-school popsicles or fast food with other guys or girls in his class. Every time he stepped outside for a breath, some alone time, some snickering fun among school kids. Some self-assured sketch would show themselves from the corners where they slunk casually against a storefront window, waiting to strike gold on some pretty kid, and this was always the question on their lips. 

Kise had always been beautiful. Sharp, clear eyes, warm as chocolate; skin clear enough to earn the undying jealousy of his peers; hair like summer, loping just past the curve of his ears. _What a gorgeous baby girl,_ women would say to his mother in the grocery store as she pushed the stroller he rode in. _What a lovely young man,_ his father’s associates would compliment when they’d come over for dinner. _Aren’t you a pretty thing_ came later, long after he knew just how to respond to it. 

One day when he was still in middle school, on a whim, he’d accepted some hopeful’s card. He knew he looked older than he was, tall and cheeky and attractive. And he was bored. Cocky. Confidence was a hobby of his, just like anything else. This would be easy, but at the very least, it’d be new. 

“You’re a natural.”

The words followed him everywhere. Faces silhouetted by the lights bearing down on him, bodies standing behind cameras and computers and mirrors. Girls at school waving the glossy pages of his spreads at him like he hadn’t already seen them, hadn’t already picked out every detail beneath a microscope, an anatomist of his own life. Boys sitting on the floor of the gym, sweaty after practice, ribbing him for being good at everything. Everything he put his mind to, at least. 

He was a natural. He knew it, and his sisters knew it, and his parents knew it. His coaches and his bosses and his teachers. The girls who thought they loved him. The one person who most certainly did not. He was one of the miracles, after all, so he was good at what he did, and that was enough — sometimes.

“You’re perfect.”

He heard it all the time: in classrooms and on unwaxed floors scuffed and scarred by black rubber, in editing rooms and on sidewalks, in nighttime whispers and in the backs of cars. And it was never true. No, he wasn’t. No, he wasn’t. No, he _wasn’t._

He wasn’t perfect. He was never good enough to begin with.

+

Kise kept his promise. He started working out in the at-home gym. He swam in the backyard pool and dried the water on his skin by the long heat of the California sunshine. He ate better, and more regularly; he scraped every plate clean of its leafy greens and fish flesh. He rose in the morning and slept at night. He drank water. He posted to social media.

That was just once, though. It was an older selfie, one from a few months ago, clothes and makeup nondescript enough to keep it from being tied to a place or time. God, he missed that time, that skin and attention. That feeling of knowing this piece of him was going out into a world that enjoyed him. But he had to show that he was fine. There had to be _something._ Saying nothing to the waiting public was like admitting guilt. He didn’t have to fold — not yet, even if it was starting to feel like the right choice.

He’d immediately gotten calls from Isao, from Tomiko and Isao again, and then his parents. All of which he ignored, turning his phone back to black before heading off to the weight room. One of his sisters had even texted him, a revelation in itself — they only spoke on holidays, really, and neither of his sisters cared much for celebrity life or the drama that came with it. They wanted normal. 

It was almost funny, if Kise thought about it. He’d never had _drama_ until now, and he’d gone from zero to a hundred without even trying. 

He went back to the gym to burn off some kinetic energy after that. He lifted barbells and did cardio and stretched to keep his muscles long and lean, a bit of a strain in the work after two weeks without exercise and his personal trainer. Aina was one of his favorite people on Earth — she was a spitfire, kicked his ass and didn’t apologize, pushed his limits but respected them all the same. She always kept her professional distance, though, when it came down to it. He wondered if he’d gotten any texts or calls from her. He wondered whether it’d be better or worse if he hadn’t. 

Either way, he wouldn’t check. Not for a while.

His stare found himself in the mirror that spanned one entire wall of this room, all clean and luxury-white, the way his muscles and veins formed faint ridges and valleys along his arms. He saw his hair, how it was getting a little long in the front and at the back of his neck, unstyled and hanging in his eyes like a stray dog. The stillness in the room — stark sun, no music, no one but him and his breath. Too much light and not enough life. It held him like a fist around the base of his neck, right at the top of his spine.

His eyes were dark and vacant as they looked back at him. And then came the slow, liquid dread in every bone and healthy muscle.

This was going to be a lonely purgatory. 

+

“I need to run some errands,” Kaito said one day, standing in the doorway of Kise’s bedroom. His hand was still poised where it’d knocked on the frame. “Care to join me?”

Kise did not realize he’d been in this same position since he’d gotten out of the shower...however long ago. He was only in a towel where he sat on the end of the bed, and he’d just been — he couldn’t really remember. Sitting there. He blinked over at Kaito, goosebumps sweeping down his arms at the sudden realization of the coolness in the room. Even his towel had gone chill and damp. 

_Need to run errands,_ his brain finally churned through. _Join him?_

“What do you need that can’t be delivered?” He tucked his hair, startlingly dry, behind one ear, and fixed his posture. “Besides, aren’t you scared to drive in America again, Kaitocchi? You remember Miami, don’t you?”

His usual energy was missing in his voice, he knew, but Kaito still scoffed at the tease anyway. “I seem to get around just fine when I need to.” He smiled, thoughtful. “I don’t know, though. Just thought it’d be nice to do something different.”

Like not stay in this stranger’s home day in and out, feeling empty and heavy, trying to forget he existed. Got it. Kise put on his best smirk. “You don’t need to patronize me, Kaitocchi. I’m a big boy. And besides, I have no interest in sightseeing. You see one coffee shop or clogged highway or Hollywood sign here, you’ve seen them all.”

“Loving the optimism.” Kaito shifted, not loving it, and Kise could hear the gentle sound of keys jingling in his pocket. Already ready, then. “I’m not going too far out of our neighborhood. We’ll be back in an hour or two, tops.”

The idea of being anywhere besides this room was enough to make Kise feel sick. It wasn’t just being outside, but _exposed_ , split open like a crab’s shell, insides where anyone could see them. See _him._ Maybe no one cared about him in America, but that wasn’t a sure thing at all. How could he know? How would he — 

“I — I’m fine.” He had to quell the panic before it could begin to swallow him. He didn’t know how to, though, so it didn’t recede at all; it was still rising, crawling up his back. “I’ll stay here. Go and enjoy some time off.” And just for good measure: “My treat.”

Kaito did not move for a noticeable stretch of seconds. 

“I cannot leave you here by yourself.”

The words hung from the vaulted ceiling with finality. Kise knew why. There was still blood in the grout between the floor tiles in the bathroom. 

He smoothed a hand over the waxy half-wet of his hair. Kaito didn’t sign on for this. And Kise shouldn’t have to be _babysat,_ for Christ’s sake. But the idea of going anywhere was — too much. But — _but —_ he had made a promise, and he couldn’t be like this. He had to do better somehow. He had to be — normal. He swallowed around a dry tongue.

“Yeah, okay.” He cleared his throat, trying to hide the way he had started to shiver. “Um, give me a minute to get ready.”

“Sure,” Kaito said kindly, mashing his lips into some semblance of a smile. The relief rolling off his shoulders was almost palpable as he turned to walk down the hall, giving Kise his privacy. It made Kise feel somewhere close to unforgivable. 

+

It was easy to slip on some simple clothes. Distressed jeans that didn’t look too expensive, a nondescript sweatshirt with a hood, and a hat to slip over his short, dark wig. Sunglasses. A face mask — he left that off, feeling it too obvious for its own good. The mask thing wasn’t very prevalent here. He’d just keep his head down instead. The hard part, though, was trying not to retch his guts out on the way to the main room to meet Kaito. 

It was true that they weren’t going very far. The residential area they lived in was a huge cluster of houses, neatly dispersed over several rounded miles of grass and concrete and trees between, and just outside that big pocket was a road full of upscale shops and cafes. Interspersed were little strips of stores and takeout restaurants and parking lots, mostly empty and sad-looking. All of it felt foreign and too wide. The whole road felt like something’s throat, like they were headed straight into its waiting belly. Every car, motorcycle, whatever that rode past them, loud and insistent, made Kise feel like he would jump out of his skin. He tried not to imagine what their destination would be.

After a frantic infinity, Kaito pulled the car into a small, busy lot, the car’s navigation system letting them know they’d arrived wherever this was. Kise eyed the white tents all lined up, all the people milling around between them, every sleek car navigating its way past and around them. A whine pealed gently from his throat before he could catch it. 

“We’ll be quick,” Kaito told him with complete earnestness. Funny how that did absolutely nothing to help.

 _Quick,_ he soon realized, this would not be. There were probably fifty little stalls in this place, all full of fruit and pastries and shiny things that equally shiny people mulled over at a simple pace. There was laughter, chatter that floated through the mid-morning sunlight; perfume and leather and butter mingled in the air; men and women and sometimes their children held hands and pointed at what items they liked, touched them all with slow, graceful fingers. This was a place where people came to spend time. To _linger._

“Why _here?”_ Kise hissed when Kaito stopped at a stand where an older man in cargo shorts was selling citrus. The lemons were almost fluorescent yellow, spotted with unripe green, their skin so waxy-fresh that the piles of them looked like giant candy. 

Kaito picked one up and squeezed it a little. “I heard the farmer’s market has the best fresh produce. Since you’ve been juicing again, I thought it’d be nice.”

 _Oh, Kaitocchi, you’re so sweet —_ is what he would have said, were he not already clinging onto the man’s big goddamned back for dear life, feeling like the concrete below his feet was turning to lava. “I’m risking exposure for _produce?!”_

Kaito looked over his shoulder at Kise, his eyes steady, his mouth neutral. He just stared for a moment, a long one, until Kise felt his own eyes start to tear up and glaze from the staring contest. 

“Look around you,” Kaito whispered far too patiently. “Closely.” 

Kise’s head darted around like a frightened bird. He took in all the stands again, each tent a little world of its own. He saw the people milling around them, their designer bags and their coiffed hair, the way they talked to each other with ease, the way they walked around here with not a care but their shopping whims. 

There were two children running between standing bodies like they were an obstacle course. There were men talking by a vegetable cart like they hadn’t seen each other in a while. One woman had stopped to buy some pastries and was presumably fishing out her wallet from her bag, the way she had her arm elbow-deep in the thing while her sunglasses were poised on her head. She turned to speak to the man with her, and the light hit her bronze skin in a beautiful sheen, one that Kise admired with…

“Wait a minute,” he whispered to Kaito, still gazing at the woman. “Is that — ”

“Probably,” Kaito whispered back. “I heard only celebrities and wealthy people from the area come here. And no one bothers them.” He nudged Kise with his shoulder. “Or takes pictures of them, since it’s usually the same people every week — nothing new.”

A neighborhood farmer’s market. A little morning sanctuary for the American celebrity. It was the most novel thing imaginable, and Kaito had discovered it just for him. A strange feeling welled up in Kise in a warm blue flash: glee. 

He circled both of his arms around one of Kaito’s large biceps, nuzzling his cheek into it. “Kaitocchi! I love you so much, oh my God.” 

Kaito laughed, either slightly embarrassed or slightly uncomfortable, and the joy zapped itself into a small dot at the pit of Kise’s stomach. He detached himself, self-conscious now, but there was a smile on his face for the first time in a long while, so he let it stay there, small as it was. He smoothed a hand over Kaito’s arm as if to brush himself from it. 

“Let’s keep looking around,” Kaito offered with a small smile of his own. 

Kise still didn’t feel ready to leave Kaito’s side, but he did take his hood off; everyone else was allowing themselves to be conspicuous, so hiding only made him stand out more. He couldn’t help being starstruck, though, and that was likely drawing attention to him anyway. He couldn’t help it! Every few minutes he spotted someone who had that _air_ about them, someone who felt different even in a t-shirt and jeans, and then he would recognize them from a magazine or a movie. He’d met western celebs before, of course, but this was different. These were people with scopes far wider than his, and they were shopping for squash and homemade jams. It was both intensely exciting and oddly comforting.

Which was the point, he realized as he admired some handmade jewelry. Reacclimate by hiding in plain sight. And he did love shopping, which Kaito also knew, of course. He loved running his hands over glossy metal chains and beads, loved wondering how he’d look in certain clothes, loved looking at interesting art and wondering where it could go in his living space. He loved pretty things; he wasn’t stupid. And he had to have this necklace. 

“How much is this?” he asked the standkeep in English. There were nerves that always went with using English, even though it’d always been something he picked up fairly easily. It was always one of his charming “talents” on variety shows, too. The woman seemed to understand him well enough. 

“Seventy-five,” she said before returning to whatever she was unpacking. And then she looked back at him, a bit more animated. “Oh, but it’s only part of — ”

She was still talking, but whatever she was saying was muddled and full; he couldn’t register the words. 

“Um,” he started again, trying for his signature golden-boy smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

The woman walked over to him, pointing at the silver chain he was holding. “That one is made of” — he didn’t know that word — “and you need to” — she was pointing at another piece of jewelry, some kind of hammered bracelet, and making a wiping motion with her hand, but he still couldn’t understand her. His stomach started squirming the longer she went on. Oh, _God,_ if he couldn’t have one interaction without —

At his blank look, she cleared her throat and started again, only louder. Kise, alarmed, looked to Kaito, who was also staring at her blankly from behind his sunglasses. 

“O-okay,” he interrupted, scratching at the back of his neck. He could feel his real hair all soft and warm beneath the fibrous wig. That didn’t help the bubble of panic growing in his stomach. “I can buy them all.”

“Oh,” she said, eyebrows scrunching beneath the hem of her faded orange bandana. “That’s not what I meant. I just wanted you to know — ”

He stood there, trying to decipher the words, and she got louder again when he couldn’t. _This is not happening._ He glanced over to Kaito again, knowing it was useless — Kaito knew five essential phrases in English, most of which were a variant of _where is the nearest bathroom?_ He started murmuring to Kise in their native language, trying to figure out what was going on.

“Sorry,” Kise tried again, waving his hands in front of him. “It’s fine — ”

“Yo, man, need some help?”

Kise’s spine went as straight as a lightning rod. Japanese, deep and casual and rough.

A man came to stand beside him, just as tall as he was, and Kise could tell he was being looked at with concern. Every flight instinct in him blared at top volume. _Oh, God,_ he thought. _This is it. Cover blown in five, four, three…_

When Kise didn’t respond, paralyzed by fear and every possible form of nausea, the man began speaking to the standkeep in perfect, unaccented English, presumably trying to figure out what the deal was with this bumbling idiot attempting to buy her products. Kise used the moment as an opportunity to sneak a peek to his right. 

His eyes traveled up one sleeveless arm, tan and well-muscled. _A jock, then. Maybe I’m saved._ Super-masculine guys didn’t care about idol culture, did they? He was wearing a backpack that looked heavy, and he smelled distinctly of sweat and body spray, the kind that used to plague the locker rooms in high school — not _bad,_ necessarily, just...intense. Up he looked, finding the twisted strap of a tank top, a well-defined chest, a necklace laying over the skin there, and a shock of red hair cut short, but not too short. 

Something visceral shot up Kise’s esophagus, right into his brain. Red hair. Strong, dark, angry eyebrows. Eyes that cut and a smile that screamed confidence louder than he could scream it himself. He would know that face anywhere.

“Kagamicchi?!”

The name shoved itself past Kise’s lips, and the man’s eyes popped open a little wider while his conversation stopped in its tracks. He cocked his head to find Kise slapping a hand over his own mouth. 

No fucking way.

“Hold up,” Kagami Taiga said in English, and then shook his head with a furrowed brow, starting again in his native tongue. “Wait a minute. There’s only one person in the whole damn world that calls me that name.” His eyes narrowed accusingly. “You’re not — ”

“I am!” Kise squeaked, terrified of hearing his own name said in public, like it would break the spell of this previously-blessed morning. God, Kagami’s voice was so loud, even louder than he remembered. “It’s me.” He even tipped his sunglasses up for a quick second, hoping at least his face was recognizable, before setting them squarely back on his nose. Thankfully, it worked: Kagami pointed a finger at him, appalled. 

“You!” He smiled widely enough to show his teeth, his canines as sharp and hungry as a wolf’s, just like Kise remembered. “What the hell! This is so _weird!_ What the hell are you doing here, you bastard? And why is your hair dark? You look — ”

“It’s a long story,” Kise replied, attempting an easy laugh and a flippant wave of the hand. He could feel Kaito poking his back in question. “Just some stuff for work! What are _you_ doing here?”

“I live here,” Kagami said like it was obvious. “Well, actually like half an hour away, in Santa Monica. But I gotta come up here every Sunday like a goddamn idiot to get some _Sicilian orange oil_ or whatever the fuck.” He mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes, and Kise got the distinct feeling he was missing something. “Anyway, yeah. I play for the Clippers, so I’m back here until...whenever, I guess.”

Talk about starstruck. Kise suddenly felt that old swell of competition in his bones, the love of sport and sweat come up from the depths of his chest. After high school, he’d gotten swept up in college and work; here and there he’d caught a few games on TV, had searched up some of his old rivals to see what they were up to, but he never had time for basketball. And now — “The _Clippers?_ Seriously?!”

And there came that smug grin of Kagami’s, teeth and all. Kise felt the nostalgia painfully clear.

“What’s with that reaction?” Kagami asked with a cocky lilt. “Someone jealous?” 

So much was the same about Kagami, and yet there was a solid sense to his presence he used to lack. Like...he’d been a wild, spitting fire before, and now he was a big, steady blaze, clear and ready for action even in this tamest, most pleasant of venues. Kise saw the gleam in his dark eyes, the tilt of his sharp jaw, and felt something — not nostalgic. It was turning to liquid in his stomach. 

“I might be,” Kise laughed a little thinly, breath light, “if my life still revolved around basketball.” 

Kagami’s face instantly perked with curiosity. God, at least he was still so easy to read. “Oh, yeah? No wonder I haven’t seen you around in a while.”

Whoa. Never mind that easy-to-read thing. Was — was Kise imagining the tone in Kagami’s voice? He laughed a little more loudly than he meant to. 

“Yeah, well...”

“For real, though,” Kagami continued regardless, “what are you doing here?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Kaito was poking him in the back again, and he swatted discreetly at the pressure. “If you haven’t heard of me by now, then I must really be a flop.”

“No, really, I wanna know.”

Kise had been joking, but judging by the clear warmth in Kagami’s eyes, the smaller smile on his mouth, he was being completely sincere. Kise felt himself stir in the strangest way, self-conscious and nervous and...interested. Was he...what — 

A loud beeping chime rang from somewhere close. Kagami instantly lifted one arm to glance at the sleek black watch on his wrist, the face glowing with some kind of notification. One of those fancy phone-watches. Oh. Kise’d gotten several for free as party favors or sponsorship gifts in the past. 

“Ah, shit. Sorry to rush out, but I gotta go.”

Kise watched Kagami’s eyes roll, feeling himself suddenly deflating. “Oh, that’s okay. It was, um, good to see you, Kagamicchi — ”

“Give me your number,” he said, shoving his wrist out to Kise with a number pad ready on the face of his watch. “If you’re gonna be in town for a bit, you should come over for a drink. We could catch up.” He smirked, a spark in his warm eyes. “Maybe play a game or two, for old time’s sake.”

“Yeah,” Kise breathed. “That’d be...nice.”

The next several moments felt surreal. Kise dutifully typed in his number, gave Kagami his info, the yellow glare from the sun winking off the screen of the watch. And then there was a friendly, urgent goodbye before Kagami darted off in the other direction, shoulders broad and hair bright above the crowd.

Sound rushed back into Kise’s ears like the world had unpaused. What on Earth was that?

“Kise.” Kaito tapped his shoulder again, and he felt it in the pit of his stomach. 

“Can we wrap up here, Kaitocchi?” He felt bizarre and dizzy, halfway separated from his own skin. “I think that’s enough adventure for one day.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Of course.” He placed a hand between Kise’s shoulders, guiding him back toward the parking lot. “Let’s go.”

Kise’s mind was whirling as they waded through the small crowd. He’d come here to hide, and the first moment he left the house he’d run into someone he knew. What were the fucking odds? He kept his eyes on his feet, the pavement blurring beneath them. The sounds of the morning softened the further out they walked. 

He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t — 

“Oi!”

Kise jumped, immediately coiled to fight or fly, whipping around to face the sound of clomping footsteps growing closer at a disconcerting rate. 

Oh. It was only — 

“Kagamicchi?” 

“I think you forgot something,” Kagami said with a breathless smile, in front of him in an instant. His large palm clapped once against Kise’s bicep and left just as soon — a familiar kind of gesture, and one that had Kise swaying with its casual force. His other hand floated between them, dangling a chain from its middle finger. The necklace, from earlier. Kise felt himself start. 

“Oh, my god, Kagamicchi, you didn’t have to — ”

“Don’t worry about it.” He grabbed Kise’s forearm, set the delicate thing in his open palm, let it curl on itself like a cat’s tail. Kise just stared at it, trying to form words. He could feel Kaito’s eyes on him, a hard press on his shoulder blades. 

“I...that’s so nice of you, but you — I can’t let you pay for this, silly!” He flailed a hand behind him — Kaito had their cash. “Let me just — ”

“Hey, seriously, don’t worry about it.” Kagami’s smile was crooked and sure, his teeth white where they peeked behind his lips. His eyes grew suddenly wider, like something had come to him. “You know what? Pay me back by being free this weekend. Saturday night, my place. We can catch up; play that game.” His smile grew, too. “It’ll be perfect.”

Kise was having an out-of-body experience. The sun winked off Kagami’s brilliantly red hair and its dark ends; his skin was illuminated by the light of the whole morning, and all it revealed was sincerity and some kind of knowing playfulness. Kagami had always come on strong, but...this was something else altogether. Something completely unexpected. 

Kise swallowed, his tongue feeling too large for his mouth. He still felt Kaito’s eyes boring into his back. There was an opportunity here: social interaction, catching up with an old friend, leaving the goddamn house. But there was also the very wide chasm of the unknown, the sinking height growing in his stomach at the thought of stepping past its edge and toward it, all of it wrapped in a package that smoldered like afternoon sunshine: tall and loud and open as he remembered, muscle memory with a foreign newness coating each word and gesture. There was Kaito, and his cell phone with its black screen, and the comfort of his bed. He needed to respond appropriately. Thoughtfully.

“Um...okay, I — ”

“Sweet.” Kagami clapped him on the arm again, then reclaimed a grip on the slipping strap of his backpack. “I’ll text you. See ya, man.”

He trotted off, each jogged step as quick as he was large. His backpack wasn’t closed. The paper bags jostled over the edge of the folded flap. Kise was hypnotized by them, wondering when something would fall out, if some artisan glass bottle would fall onto the pavement and split open in a broken, oily splat. Then Kagami disappeared around the corner of the market square, and he didn’t have to think about it anymore. All that was left inside his head was full, humid air. 

Kise looked down to his hand, the necklace glinting link by link as he turned his palm left to right and back again. Left, right. Each piece catching the light and relinquishing it in turn. 

Kagami Taiga, Saturday night. 

He shoved the thing into his pocket, his fingers too long to push it all in in one try. But he did it. And then he smoothed down the front of his hoodie, feeling the weight of his hands over his churning stomach. He could still feel the pressure of the hand around his forearm — the first touch from someone besides himself and his bodyguard in a good while. 

“Everything okay?” Kaito asked from behind him, each syllable carefully enunciated. Kise remembered himself, hands freezing where they lay. He blew out breath in a silent whistle.

“Yeah,” he replied, voice strange to his own ears. “I just, um.” He tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear, realizing all over again that he was still in a wig. “I still have no idea what that woman was trying to tell me about this freaking thing. Maybe it’s cursed.”

Kaito was smiling, eyebrows lopsided, when Kise finally turned toward the car. 

“I don’t know,” he said after a moment, readjusting his grip on their bags of fruit, sliding the keys from his pocket, moving to walk alongside. “It seems fine to me.”

They both slid into the car, Kise first, like a waiting child. He slid his hood back over his dampened scalp. Kaito got into the driver’s seat, clicked in his seatbelt, turned the key in the ignition, checked the mirrors, put the car in reverse. He put an arm over the back of Kise’s seat as he looked out the back window, the car smoothly following his lead. 

“So,” he started, and Kise slunk in his chair, “what was that about?”

“Um.” He licked his dry, sticky lips. “He’s an old friend from high school. We used to play basketball together.” A laugh escaped him like it’d been squeezed. “I guess he’s famous now.”

He could feel Kaito looking at him. “I didn’t know you played basketball.”

Kise laughed again, another choking squeeze. Basketball had felt like a lot of other things besides its essence. It had been sweat and tears, blood and adrenaline, victory and loss. It had been striving for perfection where it couldn’t exist — where the slot was already taken. It had been fun and challenging. It was, for a long time, the only place where love had grown.

And now his hands were soft and uncalloused, his mind on one linear success, and his body too lean for the court. The Generation of Miracles was simply a faint little star in the constellation of his fame, winking at the edge, far enough in the past to obscure itself. 

“It was a long time ago,” he said dismissively, insubstantially. There were things he hadn’t meant to leave behind — Kasamatsu, Kuroko, his own ever-earnest teammates. The thrill of the game. But there were also things he’d keep there no matter what, no matter how late it got or how much he’d had to drink.

And now there was today: a chance encounter that left him confused, nauseated, and as excited as if he’d just copied his way to a basket. 

His fingers played artlessly with the edge of his sweater, feeling the chain in his pocket scrape along his nails where they traveled. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi again >:)
> 
> thank you for the kind comments on the last chapter! please feel free to leave more if you have thoughts, i sincerely appreciate them!!
> 
> to my beautiful friend, i hope u enjoy this crumb ;)
> 
> xoxo

+

Kise stared at the necklace where it sat on his bedside table.

He stared at how it lay on the bathroom countertop while he showered, its unspooled form languid and relaxed as a snake.

He dangled it from his fingers while he sat at the kitchen table, watched how the light played off the thin chain and its pendant, translucent blue and sharp as a razor, lovingly traced in gold leaf. 

It took a whole day before he gave in. 

His hands shook while he forced his phone back from the dead. _Buzz. Buzz. Buzz-buzz. Buzz._ He let the notifications roll in. _What — Where — Why —_ and then there was one, an unknown number: _Hey._

Kise’s thumb swept over the text. _U still free Saturday?_ There was another right beneath it once the chatbox opened. _Its Kagami btw._

He leaned out of his crouch, sinking to sit on the floor by the outlet where his phone was charging. Thinking. He hadn’t hung out with someone from high school in years. What the hell were the chances they’d both be here? And Kagami was...inviting him. Into his home. 

Kise scratched at his hair, tugged on his naked earlobe. He opened a tab on his search engine and typed the name with quick fingers. The results appeared in an instant.

_Kagami Taiga: Power forward for the Los Angeles Clippers._

Sweating, shining proudly, red and black and blue and red. Every picture was the same: a victorious cut of a smile, exaggerated canine teeth, lights reflecting off the court floor. You could tell how fast he was, how big he was, even on the American playing field. There was a cover of a sports magazine, one of a men’s health magazine, a few clothing ads. All had him shirtless, or nearly so anyway, save for his necklace of rings, and oiled up, bronzed tan in a way Kise had only gotten close to for his summer-themed fanbook shoot. Kagami was broad and strong, all the way down to the tendons in his hand where they gripped the ball. Nothing had changed — and yet he was definitely a man now, no longer just the boisterous giant shaking things all the way up to nationals. 

Kise pressed his tongue into the roof of his mouth. He went back to the news articles. 

There wasn’t much there besides score reports, game highlights, things like that. It took him a minute to see anything juicy, even though the site looked a little sketch. _Reported Dispute Between Teammates Resolved, But Where Does That Leave Kagami’s Attitude?_ Click. _We’ve always known Taiga Kagami was a hot-headed testosterone bomb. It was only a matter of time before he blew up._

There was a picture there of Kagami yelling at a referee, neck muscles coiled with force. Kise swallowed. Kagami was hot-headed to be sure, but never terrible, never... _angry._ Not that he remembered, anyway. A shiver came back up his throat. He knew angry. He remembered what angry looked like on the court. What angry looked like as a mottled, blood-tender bruise on the face of someone smug enough to try it. A blue flame, forceful and swift, smoldering what passed through it until it turned to ash.

It was funny how someone, some stranger with a paycheck or some half-baked vendetta could twist a person to their liking, squeeze every last drop of context out until what was left was something dry and sick, unrecognizable. 

He swallowed again, a lump at the back of his throat. And then he turned his phone back off, letting it slumber in peace. 

He thought about the necklace instead. A simple, thoughtless gesture on Kagami’s part, no doubt. But it represented something. A good omen for stepping out of the house, maybe. A little pocket of warmth and beauty in this big empty place. A reminder of good times, before shit hit the fan.

What did he _really_ remember, though? He’d pressed his memories of the time before idol status far enough downward to turn them into one amalgamation of sense, sitting beneath the surface of water, muffled and shimmering. Had it really been that great? Had it really been that bad?

It’d been enough for a _Saturday, my place._

“I’m starting to wonder if you’re actually gonna wear that thing,” Kaito said with a teasing lilt. Kise snatched the swinging pendulum of chain into a fist, eyes going wide. Shit.

“Hah,” he returned, unconvincingly. “I already told you, Kaitocchi, it’s probably cursed.”

Kaito didn’t say anything to that, just uncapped his water bottle to fill it up from the fridge dispenser. His black sport shirt tight across his muscled back. He’d been working out all afternoon, as usual. There wasn’t much else to do in here. 

“So...are you gonna go visit that friend of yours?” he said instead. Kise should’ve been ready for the question — he’d been waiting for it all week. But he wasn’t ready for it at all. He pulled at his earlobe and stared out at the pool, its artificial teal and tiled inside, invitingly cold for his reddening face. 

“God,” he whispered. “Ugh.” 

Kaito waited by making himself look respectfully busy, unscrewing and rescrewing the lid to his water bottle, checking his phone, brushing a crumb off the counter. 

He deserved a night without Kise, didn’t he, after everything. 

“Yeah.” Kise’s hand, necklace and all, swiped over his face, chain catching against his nose. The smell of metal. “I guess I am.”

Maybe Kaito didn’t mean for him to see that relieved little smile, but he did, and it made his stomach twitch all over again. 

+

Twitch, twitch, roll. It never stopped — only got worse, following him through text exchanges, outfit changes, all the way to Santa Monica that fateful Saturday night. He gripped the bottle of expensive chardonnay in his lap for dear life as Kaito navigated the gated neighborhood in the new dark of the evening: eight o’clock, as Kagami had asked, and only a fashionable thirty minutes late. 

“What number was it again?” Kaito asked, crouching forward to get a better view of the houses set a long way from the street, winding driveways and massive yards separating each mansion far from its neighbor. 

“3900.” The road was smooth beneath the car. It was only Kise that was trembling. Thankfully the wine was chilled; it wouldn’t be his sweaty palms that made the label damp. His only saving grace.

They rolled to a stop. 

“I think that’s it.” Kaito pointed through the windshield at some huge stacked rectangle, its enormous windows lit golden from within. 

It was certainly an NBA player’s house. 

Christ. He was paralyzed. What was the big deal? He’d gone to plenty of homes like this before. He’d spent plenty of time with people on evenings like this, prominent people who had invited him over for a drink or several and a night spent catching up, and then they’d part amicable ways. 

A kiss to the cheek on a porch, captured, immortalized in scandal.

“You alright?”

Kise didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. An inhale shook his throat all the way down, miserably tight. He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear, feeling his rings click against his earrings. He was dressed and ready. He was far from home. He could do this. 

“Don’t wait up, okay?” The effort it took to form a halfway-charming smile literally made him nauseated. He looked at Kaito’s face, partially obscured beneath a plain baseball cap. Simple, reliable as always. “Go out tonight or something. I can call a cab.”

“Kise — ”

“That’s an order, ‘kay?” He booped Kaito’s nose with a single finger. “Have fun!”

He was out of the car and walking up the driveway before another word could be said. The car door shutting was the first drumbeat of many in his ears. Breath and pulse pushed against his eardrums in a dizzying rhythm. He could hear the swish of his jeans with each step — they were tight on his legs, perfectly distressed; his white button-down was loose and almost gauzy on top, rolled to his elbows in a way that was meant to look effortless, wide enough at the collar to show his collarbones. It was a signature sort of style for him. The only things different were his hair, now long and disastrous enough for him to put the top half in a tiny ponytail, and the little blue pendant against his sternum. 

His eyes scanned the house against his will. There were several cars in the driveway, which...was odd. Or was it? American sports players always had a ton of cars. Same with rappers and moguls and other men with money to blow. One sedan seemed older, bumper riddled with an array of stickers. Probably the one Kagami used when he wanted to stay nondescript. Or maybe he had staff. The thought almost made Kise laugh — a guy like Kagami ordering house staff around? Please. He’d sooner take care of things himself, regardless of the level of skill they’d require. In a house this large, though…

The grass _was_ perfectly manicured, he noted, and it smelled green and humid. Kise could smell the ocean as well, briny and close. It wasn’t necessarily a nostalgic smell, but it was a comforting one all the same. All he could hear were crickets and his own footsteps, his own heartbeat. All he could see was furniture and large pieces of art on the walls, but he was still too far away to see the detail on them. He supposed, with a thick scrape of teeth against his lip, that he’d see them soon enough. 

He finally, after what felt like an eternity, arrived at the front door. The steps were a designer cement, everything clean and modern, with warm, dark woods grounding it all. He could see tall plants obscuring the windows on each side of the door. Everything upward. It suited Kagami, in a way. 

With a shaking hand, he pressed the doorbell. 

There was some kind of music playing inside, he could tell. His stomach felt like a spring someone had sat on, ungodly tight, too suppressed to do anything besides succumb to the weight. 

And then the door opened. 

Kagami stood there looking happily surprised, all six-and-a-half feet of him decked out in designer athletics, lightweight and trim against his frame. He smiled, and Kise felt the spring coil tighter. 

“Hey,” he said, watching Kise give an awkward wave. “You made it.”

Kise pressed his lips together, approximating a smile. “Hi, Kagamicchi.”

Kagami opened the door wider. “Come in, man. I’m just doing some final touches on the food, and then we’ll be good to go.” 

“Ooh, final touches?” He stepped inside, toed his short leather boots off by the door where Kagami had a massive pile of shoes waiting already. Typical jock behavior. At least the rest of the house was clean, from what he could see of the main room. He could hear the TV on in some other part of the house, voices overlapping with the music. “I didn’t realize you were _making_ dinner. I’m impressed.”

“Ha.” Kagami started guiding him once his boots were neatly sequestered by the pile. “You must’ve never eaten my food in high school. I cook whenever I get the chance.” He threw a grin over his shoulder. “I love that shit.”

“Noted.” Everything grew louder as they walked along the wall that separated the front of the house from wherever the noise was coming from. “What’d you make me?”

“Steak,” he said simply, socks padding as he half-walked, half-slid down the way, turning at the end of the hall. “I hope you like meat, ‘cause there’s a lot of it.”

Kise halted in his tracks at the corner, speechless. That was certainly — 

And that was when he saw it: not a TV filling the room with voices, but _people._

Many of them. 

_Oh, fuck._

“Oh, yeah,” Kagami said, backstepping with a snap of his fingers. “Forgot to take this off your hands. My bad.”

He pried the wine from Kise’s hands, cold from their contact with the bottle, frozen from the shock. When Kise didn’t follow him into the incredibly large kitchen, he backstepped again, taking him by the wrist with a hand that felt feverishly warm. “This way.”

Everything was in slow motion. No one noticed him, but he could see them all: five, ten, fifteen faces, all laughing and engrossed in equal parts. Drinks in hand. Casual clothing. 

A gathering. A get-together. A _dinner party._

He was so stupid. Holy shit. He was so massively, unbelievably, _indescribably_ stupid. 

Before he could even think, he was led toward the massive island, its granite countertop glittering beneath the overhead lights. Waiting for him there was a tall, slim man in a sweater the color of a dried rose, dark-headed with dark eyes; he was refilling the crackers on a charcuterie board that spanned the length of the counter’s surface. Two thin bracelets on his left wrist clinked as he moved, the sound small in the din of the room but as resonant as a tuning fork. 

“Babe,” Kagami started, and Kise felt his soul drift out of the back of his head. _What?_ This man was the most impossibly forward person — 

No. The other man looked up, raising the brow that wasn’t hidden by the thick fall of his bangs. “Hm?”

“You remember Kise, right? From Kaijou?”

The man’s eyes dragged from Kagami over to Kise, and then he stood up to his full height and faced him. There was something — he — there was a distinct assessment to his gaze, for one, but there was also…

He smiled, a slight, cool thing, and the perfect beauty mark beneath his eye punctuated the gesture. 

Himuro. Kise knew him. Himuro-san from Murasakibara’s team, back in high school. Shiny black hair, soft pinkish sweater, a necklace sitting against the v-neck of its collar, two rings hanging together on the delicate chain. 

Kagami had called him _babe._

“Oh, I remember,” he said, his voice muted and smooth. “It’s good to see you, Kise.”

“Hi…Himuro…san…” Kise swallowed, watching Kagami leave the two of them to go attend to the stove. “Hi. I — I’m so sorry, I had no idea there were other...people from school...here.”

Himuro tilted his head, accentuating the pale length of his neck. “Why are you apologizing? There are plenty — ” He pursed his lips, eyes cutting to Kagami’s back. “Hold on, Taiga, are you shitting me right now? Did you not tell Kise this was a party?”

“I did _too,_ babe. I said we were all gonna catch up.” He was stirring something, his arm in a steady rotation. “I wasn’t sure if Riko ‘n Teppei were gonna show up, though, so — ”

“Not the _point~!”_ Himuro turned back, a smile plastered on his face. “I apologize on Taiga’s behalf. Clearly I put way too much faith in him.” And then he dropped the expression just as quickly, back to that indifferent slip. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Actually,” Kise said, almost interrupting his host with his urgency. “Can you, um, point me toward a restroom? I just need — I need a minute.”

“Yeah, of course.” He pointed a finger over his shoulder. “Down that hall, second door on the left.”

Kise couldn’t get there fast enough. He paced down the dim hallway, turning back once to make sure no one was looking. He found Himuro whispering to Kagami, arms crossed, eyes on Kise. _Shit._

He found the door in seconds, shut it behind him and swept the noise of the house out with it, leaving himself in the dark. 

_Oh my god._

“Oh my _god,”_ he moaned aloud, breath seizing his voice. His hands found his face, covered it like if they pressed hard enough, they could rearrange his features, turn him into someone else. “Oh my god, I’m so _stupid,_ how could I be so — ”

Their matching ring necklaces. He should’ve remembered. He shouldn’t have _assumed_ that this was some — _ugh!_ He raised a hand to yank it off by the pendant, but the chain wouldn’t snap. He had to reach back and unclasp it with shaking hands to get it off, then shove it in his pocket with a damning finality. Maybe he’d sneak out of the house and throw it into the ocean, and then let himself follow along. 

The house. The _party._ He had to get out of here. It’d been hard enough to come here for _one_ person, and now there were more in one room than he could count on two hands. He shouldn’t have come. He should’ve thought this through, not — not jumped and wagged his tail at the first sign of positive attention, like some idiot puppy looking for a scratch behind the ears. 

_I said we were all going to catch up._ Who the hell did Kagami mean by _all?_ How many other people from their high school days had happened to land in LA at this exact time? What was his fucking luck, honestly, this was _insane —_ Riko and Kiyoshi, from Seirin, were they here too? He summoned the memory of them from the depths; their vague brunetteness, their mom-and-dad thing for Kuroko and Kagami. If they were here, then who the hell else was?

Kise thought about it for a moment longer, and then he felt his blood go cold. 

_No, no._ That wouldn’t do. _No, no, no._ He walked over to the sink — entirely visible in the dark, apparently, since there were candles lit in this absurdly large guest bathroom — and turned on the waterfall faucet, let it coat his wrists in silky cool before it flowed down into his sweat-damp palms. _Breathe._ Fuck. He’d told Kaito to take the night off. _Breathe._

No. No. It was fine. He could charm his way out of this. He could charm his way out of anything. 

He waited until his heart rate slowed back down, until the embarrassment receded like a tide, and then he dried his hands off on the plush towel folded by the basin, smoothed himself down. His chest looked a little naked without the necklace, but the rest of his jewelry winked warmly in the low light. And his hair didn’t look too bad, bangs hanging long and wispy around his eyes. 

He could make this work. Even if his hands were still trembling.

 _Kagamicchi,_ he practiced, moving to leave the room and go back into the fray, approximating confidence. _I’m so sorry, but it looks like I have to go. Maybe a rain check that I’ll never actually follow through on, and then you can forget I exist again?_

He opened the door and found Kagami himself leaning against the wall opposite. He straightened his posture at the sight of Kise, his hair bright against the monochrome black of his outfit.

“Oh, hey, dude. Look, I totally did not mean to make you uncomfortable or whatever. Honest.”

Kise gave his best laugh and dismissive hand wave. “Not at all, Kagamicchi, you’re fine. Um” — he thought for a second under Kagami’s wide, watchful gaze — “to be honest, though, I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here, and since me being in LA is kind of secret, because of — an — upcoming project, my agent doesn’t really want me to be seen anywhere.”

Kagami stood there for a second, like he was waiting for Kise to go on, but then he just started nodding slowly. “Oh, okay. I gotcha. So, like, cameras and shit, not okay.”

“Exactly.”

Kagami leaned his head back, still nodding. Waiting. 

“So I should probably — ”

“I got an idea. Watch this.” With a bit of a grin, he used his socks to his advantage, bounding down the hall and sliding back into the kitchen in a grand entrance. _“YO!_ EVERYONE! We got a no-phone policy tonight! Gimme your phones!” And then, in English: “Cell phones. Now.”

“What the hell?” came a voice over a din of groans. Himuro, who only showed a mild surprise at the noise, took one look at Kagami, who was waving his hands over his head and making grabby fingers, and Kise, who had pointlessly tried to stop Kagami and was now standing nice and exposed in the doorway to the kitchen. And then he put down his wine glass, snatched a decorative bowl from beside the sink, and began to move calmly toward the attached living room. 

“We’re living in the moment tonight, people.” He paused in front of someone Kise didn’t recognize. “Let’s go. Chop-chop.”

“You too, Kise.” Kagami shot a hand out between them, obviously very pleased with himself.

Kise was glued to the spot. He’d been aiming for subtlety, a moment to scurry out while no one was paying attention. But now he could feel every eye in the room on him, all waiting, like Kagami, for him to give up possession of his phone and join their small crowd, to be present and a part of the evening. Fuck. He should never have enlisted this giant oaf in the escape plan. He may have grown, but he was still the same old Kagami, apparently. 

Sighing, Kise reached for his phone in his back pocket, already off anyway. He dropped it into Kagami’s waiting palm. 

“Sweet. You’ll have to play me to get this back, you know.”

He moved on before he could see Kise gape at him, praying he was joking. But then again, he always did love to make things so much harder than they had to be.

Fine. Kise would have to make do with this until a more appropriate moment to make his exit arose, and then he could snatch his phone from the bowl and dart outside to call a cab. The fact that no one would have a camera on them was a little reassuring in the meantime, but it didn’t change the fact that this night had gone the exact opposite of what he’d planned. And now he was stuck here. He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that there were people here he was supposed to know.

His eyes traced the room, each little cluster of people unfolding as they surrendered their cellphones. There were several men who looked tall, American — definitely teammates. A girl in the corner, short stature and short hair — ah. So Riko _was_ here. And the tall man next to her, nice and steady with a bottle in his hand, was none other than Kiyoshi Teppei. They were engaged in lively conversation with someone Kise didn’t know. And then there was the other corner, where one man stood solitary, tall and dark in a bomber jacket, hair an unmistakable navy black. 

Aomine Daiki, staring directly back at him. 

Kise couldn’t have moved if he tried.

“Alright,” Himuro called from the front of the room, as poised as a statue with the bowl of phones balanced on his palm, “who’s ready for dinner?”

  
  


+

  
  


Meals at home had always consisted of three questions: _How’s school? How’s the team? How are your friends?_

Meals when visiting home, another three: _How’s work? Are you still seeing that girl? How much did you get paid?_

Meals with industry colleagues, usually just variants of one: _How’s that project going?_

There was always a routine. A structure. An expectation in place. Kise always went into it with a mask on, a tidy hand with his chopsticks, a neat little story to tell. Charm was an innate quality of his, what he was famous for, and he could turn it on for anything — especially in exchange for warm food or a leg up. 

This dinner at Kagami’s was something else entirely. 

The steak cooked to a perfect seared brown and a blossoming pink inside, the white wine and vegetables glistening with steam, the tinkling of silverware against clean white ceramic — he was so used to that he could do it in his sleep. Meeting new people was also nothing, as simple as putting on a t-shirt. But he found himself unable to settle. Unable to... _be._ And that seemed to be the only expectation there was for the evening. 

The chatter was authentic, huge with laughter and clapping and rousing jabs. It woke the dormant memory of after-school outings with his friends and teammates: grab some fries and a soda, salt and sugar for a hundred yen each, and laugh about stupid shit. But in its midst, Kise, for the first time he could think of, found himself very, very quiet. He was still coming to terms with his embarrassment. He was overwhelmed from jumping in the deep end after weeks spent alone. And he was, admittedly, a little paranoid. 

Himuro wouldn’t stop looking at him. Those cutting eyes, silver-edged, glancing over whenever Kise thought he’d finally drifted beneath the radar. _What the hell do you want?_ Kise wanted to ask. Was it because he knew Kise had come over under some ridiculous delusion? Was it because he saw Kise looking back at him, at the way Kagami’s arm was draped easily across his shoulders, the way Kagami’s fingers unthinkingly played with the collar of his sweater and the rings on his necklace? Or was it because he knew something Kise didn’t? Whatever it was, it had Kise’s jaw set so tight it hurt to chew his steak.

And then there were Riko and Kiyoshi sitting next to him, coming at him with questions like a little married pair of talk show hosts. He couldn’t tell if they _were_ married, actually — no rings, unlike _some_ people, but they nabbed food off each other’s plates, finished each other’s sentences, and there was even a mention of a baby in there somewhere. Then again, they were likely just referring to Hyuuga, the old Seirin team captain who’d apparently followed them to the States to study. How sweet. Kise was twitching by Kiyoshi’s third _so what all have you been up to?_ and Riko’s sixth _you don’t have a personal trainer here, right?_ How absolutely sweet they were, one perfect little unit tasked with driving him fucking nuts.

That could have been all. The punishment for his hubris would have been complete with all of this, plus the lingering, tingling shame of his week-long misapprehension. But no — there was more. There was always more.

Aomine, sitting at the other end of the table. 

Kise watched him. He was always engaged. Surrounded by the American players and Kagami, talking stats and scores. Telling stories about his team, too drowned in other conversations to fully hear, but apparently hilarious, if the reactions were any indication. Cracking his knuckles against his chin. Playing with his steak knife like a bored kid at school with a pencil. 

Watching Kise back. 

Kise felt his breath shudder. He was having trouble wrapping his mind around it — that this was reality, and not some warped projection, some bad dream launched right from the past. It couldn’t be, though. Not with the way Aomine looked: no longer like a big, angry boy who thought himself a man above the rest, but now an actual man in his own right, his shoulders broader and his angles sharper. His hair was short, more mature and styled in its crop than it was as a teenager. His face was defined, the youth slimmed and cut with age and fierceness. Not unrecognizable by any stretch, but...different. Definitely. There was something intangibly different about him, and Kise couldn’t figure it out, no matter how long they stared at each other, or however many words went unsaid in the dense air between them. 

It went on for hours, until plates were finally empty and wine bottles were drained. Kise had refrained, his stomach in hard tangles, tree roots that curled out of him and trapped him unyieldingly in his chair. It wasn’t until Kagami gave a thick clap, immediately ending any trickling conversations, that he felt anything else. 

“Alright,” Kagami practically growled, teeth visible in his grin. “Anyone want dessert?”

“Or coffee,” Himuro added, head sitting leisurely on his palm. “Or both?”

“Sure,” one of the guys said in harsh English, “but my ass hurts from sitting here, dude. Can we move to the den?”

Everyone laughed, including Himuro. “If we must. Help me clean these plates up first?”

“I’ll take dish duty,” Kiyoshi offered. “You know I can’t sit still until they’re done.”

“Fuckin’ square,” Kagami gibed, cackling, his chair pealing loud when he scooted back. “I’m gonna go get the tiramisu.” 

Several people made approving noises. He leaned over to give Himuro a quick kiss, one Himuro met halfway with a feline smile. Just a peck, sweet, subconscious, and then Kagami was up and on his way to the kitchen. 

Kise’s eyes went straight to his lap, the way his napkin was draped spotlessly white over his legs. He smoothed it out — no wrinkles, clean and neat, soft linen beneath his palms. Smooth, smooth, clean. 

“Are you okay?” Riko asked so suddenly it sounded like a shout. He nearly jumped. 

“Oh.” He felt like his tongue was dragging back in his throat when he swallowed. “I’m not used to red meat, I guess. Haven’t had it in a while.”

He glanced up to flash her a reassuring smile, but — his eyes went to the other end of the table first, and — Aomine was — looking at him. Right at him. Brows set low and strong over his eyes, like he was waiting.

“Do you — ”

“I’ll be right back.” Kise scraped his chair across the floor. “Right — right back.”

He found his way to the bathroom again, skillfully avoiding Kagami in the kitchen by guessing the other way around. He shut the door behind him again, stood there in the dark for a while. Breathed. He ran his hands under the water again. But it wasn’t enough. He needed fresh air.

Everyone was settling on the big sectionals in the living room, some pittering around the kitchen to help Kiyoshi with the dishes or to help Kagami with dessert. Kise looked at none of them for too long, making a subtle, sneaking beeline for the big glass window that he hoped led to the outside.

He opened the door with a heavy sliding _whoosh,_ feeling and hearing the ocean curl around him the moment he stepped into the night. The door sealed the light and sound inside when he shut it behind him, and then it was just him and the outdoor area, massive as everything else in this house, the dry brush lining it, the path of shadowed green and rock that led down the steep hill toward the water. He crossed the space that led to the white railing at the edge of the porch, approaching it with gentle hands laid on the shaped cement. 

What a strange, surreal night.

What a way things had gone, turning on their fucking heads.

He never figured he’d associate a word like _peace_ with Kagami Taiga, and yet, that was all there seemed to be at this house: clean, spacious rooms, a comfortable life by the water, time with friends that left Kagami smiling. Someone who understood him, anticipated him. Someone to share a kiss with while passing from one moment to the next — not stolen, not secret, but shared; a whisper. An _I’m here, and it’s you._

Kise ran his palm along the curved surface of the railing, his rings catching in the rough patches. He’d wrapped any hope for that up like a little piece of chocolate, only bringing it out to savor it once before wrapping the rest back up again, bitterness rich on his tongue. Best not to taste it again in the first place — eventually, he’d forget that he was missing it at all.

No, that was a lie. The memory of the night at Harada’s house, coated in firelight and ease, watching her and her husband move through the house and each conversation like a pair of dancers. Kagami and Himuro, best and oldest friends. The ease that only came with time and love. Best and oldest friends, and...and lovers. 

He brought a hand to his neck, pressing his fingertips into the muscle. He stared out at the ocean, how the moon was a sliver of light that hung above it. He waited for the soft hush of the waves to calm him, for the balmy wind to pick up, seep through his shirt and make him feel small, but it never did.

_Click._

Startled by the noise, tiny as it was, he turned to his left. There was a figure on the opposite end of the railing, both forearms leaned over the top, the tip of a flame and the ember of a cigarette unmistakable in the shadows. 

His eyes adjusted to the half-light, and he knew immediately. 

Aomine glanced over at him, cigarette in his mouth. His exhale was a light-traced wisp of smoke, gone as soon as it appeared. Kise could smell the tobacco when he began to walk toward him, compelled by some invisible force. Unspoken invitation, maybe, or unfinished business. This moment had been waiting for him for a long time.

“Smoking will kill you, you know.” His own voice sounded musical among the calm of the crickets, the gentle roll of the ocean. 

Aomine made a _tch_ kind of noise, the kind that brought the visceral memory of a thousand others before it. Kise waited for the snarky dig that would follow, or the derisive cut of his eyes — only this time he smirked, shook his head, used his free hand to offer Kise the crumpled pack from his pocket. 

Kise smiled, too, and took one, slipping it between his fingers.

Aomine extended an arm to offer him a light, the flame struggling a little in the mild humidity. Kise cupped his hand around it, waiting for the telltale burn. And then they stood there for a long, silent moment, the smell of tobacco and saltwater thick and heady. And Kise waited. Only because he wasn’t sure where to start.

“So,” Aomine said after a particularly long drag, voice a low rasp, “been a minute, huh?”

“I could say the same.” Kise watched the smoke rise in a slow tendril. “To say I’m surprised to see you would be...an understatement.”

Aomine huffed a laugh at that. “You’re one to talk. Aren’t you all famous now, pretty boy?”

Kise’s stomach curled further into that big, gnarled knot. Did he know? 

He decided to deflect, and curved his shoulder to face Aomine a little better. “That makes one of us, apparently.”

“Ouch.” He smirked, taking it in stride. And _that,_ Kise realized, feeling that knot start to unspool, was what was different now: no smug arrogance, no anger waiting in the wings. Just a mellow drag, rough and harmless as sandpaper. 

Something lingered, though. He could feel it behind every word, every look he’d seen from across the table, every thickening second that sat between them now. 

Kise’s curiosity was...dangerous. He took a long drag, let it fill his insides, hoping it would smoke out and smother whatever was growing there. 

“I watched you, you know. Sometimes. That drama you were in.” Aomine flicked the ash building off the end of his cigarette. “I went home for...a little while. My mom was obsessed with that shit the whole time. That shitty rich kid you were playing.”

“Oh? And what did you think?”

“He was a bratty little pissbaby.” Aomine turned, the light from the house shining off his eyes as they traveled from Kise’s feet up to his head. “You’re just bratty.”

“Ohhh,” Kise laughed, pushing at Aomine’s shoulder. “I haven’t missed you at _all._ Incapable of saying even _one_ nice thing, even after eight years? Really?”

He leaned closer, like he was telling a secret. “That _was_ a compliment, believe it or not.”

Kise raised an eyebrow, tilted his head and quirked his lips, always ready for a challenge. “Was it?”

The air had shifted to accommodate Aomine, and in the short silence that followed, charged with that old spark of competition, Kise felt something give with an effortless, thoughtless tug, like someone had untied a ribbon on a gift box. He leaned easier against the railing, hip against the hard concrete. 

Aomine smirked at him, shaking his head. “Eight fuckin’ years, huh.”

“Eight years,” Kise agreed, taking another drag. “We’re the adults we always thought we were.” He laughed humorlessly, the last traces of its smoke leaving his nose, a faint burn. “Minus a fall from grace or two.”

“Yeah, it hasn’t always gone as planned.” He tilted his head, too, eyes like obsidian in the dark, their intensity hidden behind the half-mast sheet of his eyelids. “But here we are.”

“Yeah.” Kise’s voice had gone quiet. “Weirdly enough.”

The weight of Aomine’s stare was intense, pinning him to his spot, the way he knew but had forgotten. It was a lot to take in after all this time — even with this strange, inexplicable subdued thing he’d become, there was still that latent power, a slow lick of a hidden flame, radiant beneath the skin. Kise had to look away after a minute, down at the ember at the end of his cigarette, then out at the loose shadows leading to the water, all vast and black. He breathed out, in, out in a long breath.

“I feel like we got a lot to talk about,” Aomine said, quieter now too, closer. Kise swallowed, not expecting the proximity. 

“Like what?” he whispered, a bit of a laugh on the edge of his question. “What is there to even say?”

“I dunno, just — ” He huffed, always slightly impatient. Kise saw him lean a hand against the railing. “We were friends, Kise, and then you just — stopped. You just fucked off to fuckin’ la-la land, and I haven’t heard a word from you since. And now you show up here — ”

A hot, plunging sourness dove through Kise’s stomach. _Oh, god. Please don’t tell me he remembers. Please don’t say he knows._

“Look, um.” His hand shook as it snubbed out his cigarette, not even meaning to. “Can we not do this here, Aominecchi? I — ”

“Let’s get out of here, then,” Aomine said lowly, his tone suggesting that there was no space for another option. “I know you got a ride here, so I’ll drive you home.”

Kise felt indescribably off-kilter. If there was anything about Aomine that had faded or been lost with time, he wished it’d been that belligerent tendency, that complete lack of hesitance when it came to confrontation. No filter, no regard. After years of life in showbusiness, passive-aggression and conversations that veiled any semblance of the truth, all edited and buffed until they shined, it was almost...unsettling. To be given direct attention with nowhere to hide. He swallowed again, his throat dry; his thumb smudged through the ash he’d left on the cement. 

_Please don’t tell me you remember._

He hesitated enough for the both of them. There was still this part of him that wanted Aomine to see him and think of something distant, just out of reach. A mirror image of his own self so long ago. Old habits died hard, he guessed. But there was also guilt, and the loneliness of the place he was going home to, and there was the unmistakable pull of that old dormant feeling brewing to life again, the one he hated but had no real way to control — save for the sole way of acquiescence, of not struggling against it. And so he faced Aomine, the weight of those eyes, the piercing fear in his gut, and said:

“Sure, Aominecchi. Take me home.”

There was a long moment where Aomine just stared at him, assessing. Waiting for the punchline. But then he cracked a little grin, the same as always, and pushed himself off the edge of the balcony. He flicked his cigarette onto the ground, snuffing it out with his sneaker. 

“I’ll get my keys.” 

+

  
  


Kise was freshly sixteen the first time he snuck out of the house. _Let’s go for a ride,_ the text had said. And so he dressed for flattering comfort, made sure he could hear his father snoring from his parents’ bedroom, and then he closed the door behind him in careful, heart-pounding silence. 

They’d driven down the highway, far enough from the city that Kise could see the stars sewn into the black velvet of the sky, the way the world seemed huge and like a blanket covering him all the same. The windows were down, and the top was too — the perks of spending time with someone older, he’d thought with a half a smile. Not just a car, but a convertible. The wind threaded wildly through his hair, crisp and cool even in the late summer humidity. A sweet caress billowing beneath his sweater. 

He’d laid his head on its side, closing his eyes to relish the deafening rush in his ears, the luscious wind on his face. The hand on his thigh, sliding warm and firm over the fabric of his jeans; how it made his stomach drop and flutter. His own hand drifting through the swift, silky air, holding onto nothing.

He was flying. He could forget what was waiting for him. 

He watched the stars get closer as they flew. He watched them wink bright, gently embellishing the pitch-dark of the field they’d pulled off to, far from the city. He gazed at them when he laid his seat back, allowed himself to be touched, covered in breath and whispers. He lost himself in the feeling, in those quiet, distant lights, wishing he could become one and disappear.

He watched them fade as he rode back home, until they were lost entirely behind the glow of the city late at night. By the time they pulled up to the curb outside his house, shared a final kiss, and he could slip back inside the unlit stillness of his house, he couldn’t see a thing. 

He watched the gray of his bedroom ceiling until the sun came up. He fell asleep ten minutes before his alarm went off to get ready for school. Another empty day ahead of him, at least until he would walk onto the court. The one place he would never disappear. 

  
  


+

  
  


The air was warm outside his window, and Aomine had some hip-hop CD turned on low and mellow through the speakers. The blazing reds and oranges from the taillights were blurs he could close his eyes against and see flickering, phantom impressions behind his lids. The congestion on the highway kept them from going too fast, but they still were at a brisk speed. The breeze felt good on his face, its hot skin. 

He had no idea where they were. He kind of liked the feeling, freeing and terrifying all at once. He focused on that instead of the man driving him, who’d been silent since they got in his car. Until — 

“Oh, yeah. Need your address.”

Kise’s eyes flew back open. _Shit._ He’d told him to head toward Malibu and had forgotten the rest.

“Um.” He shifted, reaching for the phone in his back pocket. He held his fluttering bangs back from his face and pressed the power button. “Yeah. Gimme a sec.”

He waited for it to turn on, knowing he’d have to text Kaito, and then — well. Hold on. He pressed it again, waiting — 

A low battery signal.

“Shit.” Perfect. Just what he got for avoiding. 

Aomine glanced over at him, one arm on the wheel. “What?”

“I might...need a phone charger.”

“Hm.” He huffed a breath out of his nose. “What kind of phone is it? I might have one back at my place.”

Kise waved it between them. Aomine took one look and nodded. And then he smirked. 

“Easy enough.” He flicked his blinker on, checked his mirror, moved easily into the right lane. 

Things grounded a little once they were off the exit. There were more buildings in close huddles, apartments and corner convenience stores, people on the sidewalks. It was fairly late now — the streetlights were dim and long; neon signs over storefronts were brighter, almost eerily so on the emptier streets. It seemed like they were approaching a more residential area of town, one where shared houses and small apartment buildings coexisted in slightly antique, dilapidated harmony. A far cry from Malibu, that was for sure. 

Aomine pulled into a parking lot surrounded by a broken fence. Kise cleared his throat, tucking his hair behind his ear. 

“You asshole,” Aomine chuckled lowly, shoving his leg. “It ain’t the Four Seasons, but you’ll live.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he pretended to scoff, rolling up his window. 

“Look, at least I live alone. Most of the team live together since the rent is so fuckin’ expensive here, and I’m not —”

“Not much of a _team player,_ I know.” Kise laughed. “I remember.”

Aomine stared at him, amused, eyes narrowed in that old familiar way. A challenge. His gaze dragged from Kise’s legs up to his eyes, where they stopped, a sharp gray flare in the half-light. “Things change, y’know.”

Kise’s throat was tight when he answered, as light as possible: “Not everything.”

He still felt a lingering unease as they walked into the closest building — some slightly rundown brick thing a few stories tall, lit at the three-doored entrance that Aomine easily unlocked with a set of keys. They walked wordlessly to the third story, their steps just slightly out of sync, echoing under the dim, yellowed fluorescents. He could feel his pulse in his neck. The exertion of the climb was more than he expected.

He could hear his breath inside his throat as Aomine unlocked the door to his apartment, deadbolt first and knob second. He followed Aomine inside, watching as he switched a light, kicked off his shoes, threw his keys onto the kitchen counter right beside the door. The entryway — and the apartment itself, for that matter — were so small it was a wonder Aomine’s broad, tall frame fit into it at all. But he did, and he moved around it with a natural ease, sliding his jacket from his shoulders to show the fitted black shirt beneath.

“Charger’s plugged in by the sofa,” he offered, casually inclining his head toward the tiny living area. “Make yourself at home, I guess.”

“Don’t worry. It shouldn’t take too long,” Kise replied, walking past Aomine with measured steps. Home, it seemed, was a simple affair too. An old brown sofa, second- or third-hand, a cheap black coffee table, and a huge flatscreen resting on a pile of moving boxes that looked only halfway empty. A game console and its wires strewn across the floor in front of them. Magazines stacked haphazardly beside it. 

Nostalgia came over him in a thick, slow wave. Pick this room up and ship it to Japan, panel the walls in wood and some hot-babe posters, send it back a decade, and it was like he was a teenager all over again, here to abandon the guise of studying for playing fighting games with his best friend. He twisted his mouth, not sure if he wanted to smile or feel that same old twinge of loss. 

He perched himself on the edge of the sofa, locating the charger where it was plugged into an extension cord. It’d be a minute, he knew, but he tried to turn it on anyway, the unease and restlessness finding its way into his knees. 

“You want a drink?” The slope of Aomine’s back was silhouetted by the bright inside of the fridge. The cold clink of glass settled in the door when he swung it open. “There’s beer and...well.” A shuffling noise. “Beer.”

Kise let out something disconcertingly close to a giggle. This night would unhinge him, once and for all, it seemed. “Beer’s fine.”

When Aomine met him at the couch, extending one open amber bottle in offering, Kise seemed to regain awareness of the space outside his brain. 

“Don’t you have to drive me home?” He took the bottle. It was chilly on his fingers.

Aomine barely paused as he sank down onto the sofa, posture lazy and big, one arm slung across the back. “It’s one beer.”

Kise raised a brow at him. 

“I’ll sip slowly.”

Slightly more satisfied, Kise took a long sip of his own. _Ugh._ Definitely not his first choice, watery piss that it was, but certainly not his last. At least it wasn’t vodka. He’d be off of that for a _long_ while. 

“I drank at dinner, y’know.” He heard the gentle slosh of Aomine taking a drink. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with it when we left.”

“I, um.” Kise moved to put his hair behind his ear, but his fingertips landed on his earrings instead, their smooth metal. “Honestly, I didn’t even notice.”

“Hm.” A moment of silence that had Kise turning the hoops in his earlobe. “Is this the first time you’ve seen the Seirin guys since…”

“Yeah. Since high school.”

“Mm.”

Kise took a deep, sour sip. Crossed his ankles. 

“You keep in touch with anyone else?” Aomine crossed his ankle over the other knee. “What’s that green haired fuck up to?”

“Midorimacchi?” Kise snorted, thinking of their chance encounter in Shinjuku a few years ago, quick and painless. “I think he’s studying meteorology. Or something, last I heard.”

“Hn. Figures.”

“What about you?” Kise returned. “You and the little Seirinies seem pretty cozy here.”

He felt more than saw Aomine’s shrug, a swish of fabric against the cushions. “Eh, maybe.”

Typical. Kise smiled against the lip of his bottle. Time to step it up a notch. 

“Kagami looks good, though. Really good. I can’t believe he’s all...grown up. And that _house — ”_

“He’s a dumb fuck and a sap.”

He finally turned to look at Aomine, who was grimacing as he drank. Kise felt his grin stretch across his face. 

“That’s _mean,_ Aominecchi. Just because he’s still your rival doesn’t necessarily — ”

“He’s not my _rival,_ you idiot, I’m not _five_ — ”

“ — you’re just jealous that you don’t have a Lamborghini, aren’t you — ”

Kise jostled when Aomine pushed at him. “You’re such a shit.” He was laughing, albeit begrudgingly. “Think you know everything.”

Kise felt himself settling into the couch, shoulder just beneath the line of Aomine’s forearm where it had replaced itself over the back. He allowed himself to meet the eyes that waited for him, deceptively warm in the mild shadow of night. 

“Well then.” He angled his head, playing his famous charm. “Why don’t you tell me what I don’t?” 

So he did. And they talked. They talked about Aomine’s basketball career, that he played for the Pistons now, about how cold Detroit was, laughed about some shit-talking he did for his teammates. Kise listened to it all like he was drinking it, easily, with vigor, not realizing how thirsty he was until the periods fell on the end of their sentences. Aomine’s white teeth, brown skin, dark eyes alight with the fire of the game, even in its memory. His shirt pulling across his chest when he moved to recreate the action, wrists and forearms tensing and untensing like he was on the court as they spoke. 

The beer bottles gathered on the table — two, four, six, maybe more. Kise had lost count, and he didn’t care. This room was a time capsule, and he was his adolescent self all over again — starry-eyed, competitive, raptly attentive and hanging on Aomine’s every word. He’d missed this, and he knew he’d missed this, even if he never thought about it. It’d just been too long. 

_Had it really all been that bad?_

Eventually, though, like all good things, it had to wind down. The conversation dissipated into quiet. But it was — nice. Kise couldn’t seem to stop scratching his nail along the seam at the thigh of his jeans, though, back and forth and back and forth, over and over. His body was radiating warmth, enough to make his chest feel cool with a thin layer of sweat. 

“I guess I should call a cab,” he said, almost like he was telling himself a secret. “I’m sure my phone’s charged by now.” 

The thought of that house waiting for him felt distant and cold, like remembering a scene from the end of a movie. But things were winding down, and their words were starting to slur, and he was feeling too...good. It wasn’t good.

Aomine, in lieu of answering, took a drink of his beer, tipping his chin back, but he was still staring at Kise, face booze-flushed and unreadable. Kise watched his throat move as he swallowed each gulp. His skin was a deep bronze, illuminated by the soft yellow light of the room, glowing beneath its reflection on the bottle. 

Kise found his own throat was going dry. It glued his tongue behind his teeth. The weight of that stare was making it hard to breathe again, and Kise couldn’t — he didn’t quite know what it was about it.

“What?”

Aomine just stared, like he hadn’t heard him. Eyes shining, glazed, but unmistakably focused.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked, the question and the accompanying laugh more breath than words. Making light of this seemed like urgent work. 

_Call a cab. Or just call Kaito. Go home._

Aomine only smirked, haughty and expected, and kept staring. 

“Y’know, you’ve always been pretty,” Aomine said simply. Inanely. “Like a girl.”

_Pretty._

The word was a drop in Kise’s stomach, lower, ripping out languidly and full of heat, coating every inch in a slow burn. _Pretty._ Those eyes like the edge of a knife. The slight but wicked curve of those lips. He wasn’t sure he knew what to say to that, or if he even had the voice for it.

It turned out he didn’t have to. Aomine suddenly leaned over to place his bottle on the coffee table with a soft _clink,_ and then he was leaning toward Kise, closing the space between them with only a slight rustle of his clothes and skin against the fabric of the sofa. 

His hand reached up, and Kise could feel his pulse in his neck, hear it in his ears. He tried to keep his eyes from falling closed. 

_Go home._

Kise’s eyes closed the moment Aomine’s fingers made contact with the tiny little half-ponytail at the back of his neck. A slight tug and the band holding it was off, and Kise’s longish hair fell forward to brush against his chin and jaw, unfolding in tiny sweeps. 

“See?” Aomine said, still teasing, lighthearted. But Kise could feel the warmth and breath with the word on his face, an invisible touch to his lips. 

He hadn’t realized his eyelids were still shuttered closed — anything to just make it through this feeling, this overwhelming, heady drug of proximity and the way Aomine smelled so good, so masculine and smooth and exactly the way he remembered, the way he used to wish — he swallowed around a crackling throat, opening his eyes.

Aomine was much closer than he’d expected. He was so fucking close, and he was _watching._ Kise’s stomach plummeted, hot and fast. 

He had to — he had to stop this. Before he did something stupid, reckless, irrevocable. 

“Aominecchi,” he whispered, grasping for the right thing to say and finding nothing. Probably because there was nothing. There was an almost sinister, liquid darkness to those black-blue eyes, a focus there that pushed anything else too far off to see or hear. 

Aomine inched infinitesimally closer. Almost defiantly, if he didn’t know any better. 

But Kise knew. He knew exactly what it was about that fucking face of his, that same old curve of his lips, the same simmering intensity in every inch of Aomine that always hit him where it hurt. 

Aomine tucked his hair behind his ear, thumb just barely brushing the silver hoops along the lobe on its way. Kise heard his own breath hitch in his throat. Pathetic. It was like all of it was gone, just from that — all of it dissolved, melting in an instant at one gentle touch.

“Stop teasing me,” Kise whispered, too low to sound like the plea it was. 

Aomise just smiled. The upper hand, always. “Is it working?”

There wasn’t any hesitation to the way he kissed him. It was full and heavy and sure, that focus bleeding into every slide of Aomine’s mouth against his own. Breathless, Kise arched closer, kissing back with parted lips, careful. There was no way this was more than simple curiosity. _Pretty,_ he thought, the word velvet between the spaces of his mind, _like a girl._ He surrendered anyway.

Aomine’s hand raked back through his hair, each finger the end of a live wire. And then he pulled, slanting Kise’s head, making the kiss go deep. The world narrowed down to the warm press of tongue on the back of his teeth, the fading tang of beer and tobacco, the hand circling his hip, the hand of his own he was snaking around the solid curve of Aomine’s shoulder. 

They had to pull apart when there was no breath left between them. Kise found himself gasping for air, exhales arcing into weak moans when Aomine’s mouth moved to the spot beneath his ear and sucked, licked a wet line down his neck just to come back up and do it again, this time with teeth. The thrill curled through his blood, potent and lightning-hot. And then came the consuming urge. Just like all those sweat-soaked dashes across the court, pound for pound, quicker than a storm — not only did he need to copy, but he needed to do one better.

He moved torturously slowly, heavily, slinging his leg over Aomine’s lap to straddle him. Gravity forced him down, thighs over hips, Aomine hot and solid against the tight stretch of his jeans. It got Kise beyond the bad initial stir — he was hard and throbbing, more pliant against the hands that gripped him, kept him captive between their two rough palms. 

“Aominecchi,” he groaned, a whine far louder than he meant for it to be — like all his want had slung itself together and was pushing itself into every corner of his body, every molecule alive where he was being touched. Aomine only answered in a snarl, low and loose, teeth tugging at Kise’s earrings, nose pressed unrelentingly in his hair.

It was all too much. Kise was drunk on the feeling. He got lost in it for — and — and then it was everything: the power of his desire and the feeling of it surrounding him, the thumb pressing at his nipple through his shirt, the hand scratching possessively on the dimples at his lower back beneath the fabric. He let his throbbing lap sink down on Aomine’s again, more intentional, his breath going high at the contact, hard against harder, hotter than hell. His head rolled back; Aomine’s teeth on his neck kept him in place. He was dizzy, breath dissipating in the invisible heat above him as his eyes closed.

 _“Ah,”_ he whined with an open mouth, pleasure thick in his veins. “Tell me again.”

Aomine’s lips moved against wet skin. “Tell you what?”

“You watched me.” Kise’s hand fisted in the collar of Aomine’s shirt, his other hand on the back of the sofa for leverage as he moved. “You said you watched me.”

“Mm. Yeah, I watched you.” His breath was hot inside Kise’s ear. “Stupid-ass show. I saw all those fake fuckin’ tears.” His hand inched down enough to slip his fingertips beneath the waistband at the back of Kise’s jeans, calluses whispering against the skin. “Wanted to get you so goddamn full of me it made you cry for real.”

Kise moaned on a long, freed breath, unbidden. God, he knew this was the wrong thing. Falling into this pit again, waiting for the jaws to snap around his ankles and bind him like an animal. But getting what he needed was more important than what it would mean to get it at all. 

“Then do it already,” he said — making no move to try to stop, instead sliding his hand down the shirt drawn tight across Aomine’s broad chest, down until he could dip a hand just an inch beneath the waistband of his pants. He wanted to draw it all out. To tease him right back and see where it would land him. Aomine was nothing if not possessive, taking what he wanted in a flaming, merciless fist. Kise wanted every burning hit.

He didn’t have to wait long. He landed hard down on the sofa, back thumping against the stiff seat cushions, eyes wide and wild when Aomine’s palm pinned him to the spot. 

The man was a shadow over him, looming where he was leaning on his knees, the angles of his face traced with the only light left around them. His eyes were flinting steel, bearing down on Kise with an unmistakable smug. 

Every inch of Kise’s body rippled and pulsed. Waiting for it.

“Careful what you wish for,” Aomine said, enunciating every word. And then he swept down to take Kise’s mouth again, deep and hungry, leaving room for nothing else.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy valentine's day! here's some angst!! <3
> 
> thanks for your patience! comments are always appreciated.
> 
> xoxo
> 
> ps - i promise it won't always be fade to black they will have actual sex in this fic and a lot of it, so hopefully nsfw is your thing >:)  
> pps - nothing, i just wanted to say peepee

+

He often had this dream. Warm bed, warm bodies, warm light. Stretching his legs beneath the sheets, the satisfying pull of muscle and the knowledge that he could curl back in and keep sleeping, the world suspended in morning until he chose to rise to it. Someone rolling over to slide their hand over the valley of his waist, slow against soft. Hard, and lazy about it; gentle strokes to get him up to a simmer, eyes closed and voice rasped with sleep and delight all caught behind his lips. 

He stirred when he sensed the body behind him move. He waited, uncurling like a cat, ready for the first touch of that hand on his side, the skim of fingers on his skin. The body rolled over, and Kise heard a soft, low moan, thick with sudden consciousness. 

His heart woke, rising with a flutter into his throat. This was it.

The covers moved, falling off his shoulder in an intimate, sensual slide. And then there was silence, the heavy beat of expectation. 

“Shit.”

Kise felt his face scrunch in a frown. This was new.

_ “Shit.”  _ Suddenly, a weight thrown on him — half of the covers landed on his legs. A whining creak, a dip in the mattress, and then the bed behind him was flat and weightless. “I’m so fuckin’ —  _ stupid — ” _

Kise, paralyzed, heard a lot of things in very quick succession: haphazard shuffling, drawers yanked open, a few loud steps in random rhythm, like a loss of balance. The rustling of fabric. Steps outside of the room. Loud, sneakered stomps. Keys jangling.

The front door slamming shut, sucking all the air out of the apartment with it.

Kise’s eyes flew open, staring unseeing at the white wall beside him. His pulse was thrumming in every inch of his body.

Something seeped out of his stomach like a toppled vase, its flowers limp and forgotten while it drifted slowly up his body in a pooling trickle. Something dreadful. Spiteful. Prepared.

He closed his eyes against the morning light, breath shuddering. 

He slid a hand beneath the pillow, feeling its cool underside, soothing against the stifling air of the room. It smelled like sweat in here, heady in an unpleasant way, like overripe fruit left out in the sun.  _ He  _ smelled like sweat, too — that was no surprise. His body hadn’t run below a fever pitch in days. And last night was...was...

The sheets slid intimately down his stomach when he sat up. His nakedness felt slightly south of jarring, like somehow it was impossible that he’d ended up this way. In a way, that was true. This should have been impossible. The fact that it had happened at all — that he could still feel the places those hands had gripped him with fervent force, that he could still taste that mouth and skin — 

He was dizzy when he got out of the bed, vision tilting when he stumbled around the room. His skin crawled, exposed as he felt. His shirt was a crumpled, undignified pile at the foot of the bed — he snatched it and buttoned it back on with stiff fingers, knowing he was missing the right holes and not caring. He smoothed it over his naked thighs, searching the clothes-littered ground for his jeans and underwear. 

The night before came back to him in flashes, and a chill ran through him. The warm light of the night before, the dragging heat — the hot morning sun on yellow-white walls; the eerie, awful sudden emptiness of it. 

He could see more in the daylight: the sofa where he’d been fucked hard and fast, before moving to the bed for more. The used condom on the floor by the coffee table. Empty beer bottles on the wooden surface. His phone on the floor.

His skin crawled, being here by himself. It was time to leave. It was time the night before, right when they’d arrived. 

He waited for his phone to boot up, for the short flurry of notifications to pass, and texted Kaito. He — couldn’t handle a call yet.

The sky was a harsh, deep blue when Kise finally made it outside, dressed in his shamefully wrinkled clothes. His underwear was stuffed in the pocket of his jeans. He’d stolen a hat from the entryway of Aomine’s apartment, plain enough that it hopefully wouldn’t be missed. Even if it were, it didn’t matter.

They would never talk again. Not after all of that. It made his hands shake to think it. Not even in mourning, just — just deep, genuine, unadulterated embarrassment, crumpling him like a piece of trash on the sidewalk. He barely managed to step around a rotting takeout box that had narrowly missed its wastebin. It smelled like it was dying. 

He looked down to his phone. The full battery taunted him. That little blue dot was moving closer to the marked location, the only miracle of the last twelve hours. 

He felt disconcertingly close to vertigo. He’d been to LA so many times, but this felt like an entirely different world. Overwhelmingly busy. Lonely. The sun was too bright against the pavement, and every storefront yawned with age and grime. He didn’t want to  _ be here anymore,  _ why was he  _ here _ and not home, even if home was a nightmare, even if — even if — 

The sight of the car startled him, fear and relief and something potent seeping into his stomach. Its shiny exterior, cold as cream, greeted him with a condemning smile.  _ Hi,  _ it said to his form, distorted in its moving reflection.  _ Welcome back to reality. _

Kaito looked different when he saw him. Like they’d become strangers in the last twelve-ish hours. His eyes were dark and honest like always, but there was a foreign glaze to the way he looked at Kise. Or maybe it was the way Kise felt, like he’d cracked out of the egg before he’d been fully incubated. Naked, and probably looking like it. Seeing it reflected back in the steady shine of those steadier eyes. 

“Are you alright?” he asked when Kise had finally buckled his seatbelt and was settled into a slouch. It was the question he always asked when he saw Kise after a rough night. It was also what he’d asked when he found him half-dead on the bathroom floor. 

“Um,” Kise said, eyes decidedly elsewhere, voice going high, some strange politeness taking over. “I’m frustrated with myself, I guess? But I’m fine. I’ll just eat an entire bowl of cookie dough and watch a romcom or something, and then I’ll be over it. You know how it is.”

Kaito looked at him for a long moment, not commenting on the way he’d started to sniffle and hold a finger under his nose. He wouldn’t cry, and they both knew it. But Kaito looked anyway, until the silence was a hot, dusty spotlight. Then he moved the gearshift, cranking it gently into drive. 

“Yeah. Alright,” Kaito said — because Kise was fine, and told him he was fine, and that was all he needed to know.

+

  
  


As an idol, relationships were a tricky thing. Hookups were even trickier. In fact, if possible, they were best avoided entirely. 

No one ever did, though. 

Celebrity was a different world. Not for the way it elevated a person, but in the way it removed them. Every moment was for consumption. Every smile, every laugh, every tear was an object. Every genuine thing was boiled and simmered, blistered, distilled and dwindled down to a paycheck. 

Kise loved it, because it kept him from himself. 

Kise despised it, because it kept him from everything else. 

Relationships happened once in a while: lovely on camera, bright and sweet. Lunches and flowers and press releases. A chaste hand to the knee. A kind smile, teeth demure behind lips, displays of affection simply the mere inch between where they stood beside each other. Nothing more, nothing less.

Hookups happened even less frequently, it seemed, but with a breathtaking surge of feeling. Always hidden, always  _ you first — no you —,  _ hands sliding and pushing and stroking, never claiming, never  _ taking,  _ never pulling his back far enough from the bed to let his heart spill up on his chin. It was indulgent, not sacred. Something he needed, not something he wanted. So, so,  _ so _ careful.

It was the careful vetting, the careful recklessness, the careful tiptoe forth and back through the dark. The most careful were the rare mornings, earlier than sin, coffeeless and passionless with a final kiss to neatly wrap the evening and leave it behind.  _ See you around — yeah, sure —  _ knowing that that was it, and it was back to work.  __

Kise despised it, because it kept him from himself. He didn’t have to give into knowing what was lacking. He could let the urge be sated at its basest level and let it sit there, never rising to the occasion. No challenges, no real right or wrong. Simple math, and a finished equation, too cold for any soul to flourish in it.

Kise loved it, because it kept him from everything else. No love, no feeling. No dwelling on what could have been — only on what was. 

Nothing would always be easier than everything.

  
  


+

Back to the old grind it was. Eat, work out, swim, eat, sunbathe, shower, eat, sleep. Look lean and lovely and nourished on the outside. Feel mawing and hollow on the inside, like you’d been carved fleshly out with a rusty spoon. Try not to think about what was waiting outside of the bubble, water tension just barely keeping its surface from breaking. Post an old selfie anyway, just to see the sharp influx of likes in the minute it takes you to shut your phone back off. Avoid it all, as long as you can. 

But Kise couldn’t avoid it. It was raw, and fresh, and everywhere he looked. 

He saw his legs in the bathtub; he found himself in the mirror during his skincare regimen; he felt the stretch of muscle that hurt with just enough edge to make him hiss during his cooldowns. And every time, it all came back in an unforgiving wave: Aomine over him, pulling his jeans off by the belt loops, setting one ankle on his shoulder to let his teeth trace the skin of Kise’s inner thigh. Aomine’s voice and breath low, harsh from behind him, the scrape of raw granite, beer-heavy fever-filthy words rolling from his throat right into Kise’s ear. Aomine’s sweat dripping onto Kise’s back, a whisper running up his spine until it reached the space between his shoulder blades, right above his heart where it beat against his back.

Things felt so different when you were no longer experiencing them. They were visceral but distant, bizarre to realize; impossible to perceive, sometimes. There was no way that was him there last night, succumbing to the moment. And yet it was, because it had happened, and Kise had the burnished rose petals on his neck and chest and thighs to tell the story for him. 

He slipped on a pair of sweats and a cowl-neck hoodie before bed, obscuring it all from his own sight. It was easier to breathe that way.

It didn’t stop his thoughts from pressing into every corner of his mind, though, waking or asleep. Sleeping was a restless, fruitless venture because of it: he woke sweating more than once, hard and upset about it; his covers were a harried lump entangling his feet. The thick darkness, unshadowed — after he breathed in it for an indeterminable amount of time, it was suddenly too much to bear. With an insolent huff, he kicked the comforter off. 

The light coming in from the windows at the back of the house could hardly be called as much. It was a thin gray peek of dawn dancing over the last threads of the night, illuminated by the few warm lamps dotting the edge of the backyard, and the silky, iridescent glow of the pool. 

It had been a while since he’d seen the morning this early. He hadn’t had a schedule that demanded it since he’d been shoved squarely out of the right to one. He couldn’t tell if he missed it, that birdless calm before the world woke up behind him. The glamour of needing more hours in the day than anyone should rightfully have.

Three weeks, he’d been here. This house felt a little closer to him now, this stranger’s furniture now something he might feel more comfortable sinking onto, drawing his legs up beneath him on the couch while he watched the silhouette of trees blowing with the wind.

The glass door by the dining area slid open, interrupting the silence. Kise, dazed, glanced over to find Kaito walking into the house and stepping into slippers, rubbing his hair with a towel. Kise hadn’t even seen him in the pool.

“You’re up early,” Kise twittered in a thick, sleepy rasp. Kaito stopped short, obviously startled — but he recovered quickly, smoothing each side of the towel on his neck wide over his bare torso, hiding his big bodyguard muscles. 

He opened the fridge, white light bathing him as he grabbed an apple. “I could say the same for you.” A small quiet; the fridge closed with a gentle swish, and it was back to soft dawn dark. “I usually get up around five, though. At least I do here — never really got over the jet lag.” He seemed sheepish about it.

“That’s just inhumane, Kaitocchi, you square.” Kise’s teasing lacked its usual vigor, but it made Kaito smile a little nonetheless, half-grinning as he took a crisp bite. It faded as he chewed, then swallowed.

“Everything okay?” 

Kise restrained a sigh. Sometimes he wished Kaito cared less. “Peachy.”

He watched as Kaito considered that, as he brought a buff arm up to scratch at his ear.

“Tomiko wants to talk to you.”

“Mm.” Kise inhaled slowly. A thread of nausea needled its way up his chest.  _ I know, I know, I know,  _ he wanted to say, wanted to chant until the words were as meaningless as they felt. He turned his eyes back to the window, seeing his own shape reflected in the glass, floating above the water like a spirit.

“I’ve been trying to get them off your back for weeks, until…’til you seemed...ready. But I don’t think I can hold them off anymore.”

The back of his eyes stung, burning at the edges. He’d never be ready to talk to them — at least this way, the way he’d been doing things, he could drag himself along this static limbo, the other shoe forever hovering above his head instead of dropping down to press into his skull. All he wanted was good news. An ounce. A  _ morsel  _ of it. But there was just no way. The memory of Isao’s angry disgust still festered fresh and sick. 

Kise’s own disgust, secret, at the person he’d become was even newer, just as potent. Who was he, running away from every warning sign, every upwind sweep that smelled like defeat?

It’d never been like this, he tried to tell himself. But still. That didn’t matter.

“Hand me your phone,” he said, barely managing to put voice in the words. He stuck out his arm, palm waiting with fingers curling far more urgently than he felt. 

“You — you sure?” Ugh, the audacity Kaito had after bringing this up in the first place. Kise stopped himself from jutting his bottom lip out. “You could probably wait until later today, if you want. It’s pretty late there — ”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s still awake.” He wiggled his fingers again, beckoning. “Gimme.”

It was a moment before he heard Kaito shuffle over. But he did, and he placed his phone carefully atop Kise’s hand, contact already loaded. All Kise had to do was pull the trigger. He did so, and then kept his eyes on the window. He could see Kaito hovering beside him like a mother hen, could feel his stare pressing into his side. Kise waved him off, breath trembling in his lungs. 

_ Ring.  _ Kaito shuffled back to the kitchen, at least pretending like he wasn’t listening.  _ Ring.  _ Kise could literally taste his own heartbeat.  _ Ring.  _ Maybe she wouldn’t pick up. At least he could say he’d tried.  _ Ri —  _

_ “Hello.” _

Flat, stern. The voice of someone who couldn’t be bothered. At least that hadn’t changed in the last few weeks.

He took a deep, quivering breath. Bracing himself. And then:

“Tomiko-chaaan,” he sang, knowing she hated when he was cheeky with her. “Did you miss me?”

_ “Kise? Is that you? What the — ”  _ He could hear her shifting around.  _ “What the hell have you been doing? Isao is this close to flying out there himself!” _

He swallowed, trying not to picture the man storming up the driveway, vein visible in his forehead. “Oh, now, that’s just silly. He’s so  _ dramatic _ — ”

_ “Do you have any idea what’s been going on since you left? Any idea what kind of mess you left behind? The amount of money we’ve lost already is just — ” _

“We seem to have some differences in our memory here, Tomiko-chan — because, you know, if I recall correctly, I was  _ forcibly removed  _ here when you all couldn’t stand the fucking sight of me. So if you wouldn’t mind revising your little — ”

_ “You lost your modeling contract, Kise.”  _ Her voice was loud. Final.  _ “They dropped you, like you were nothing. They cited the morals clause.” _

Kise felt it then, once and for all: the world cracking beneath his feet, sinking. Slipping. 

That was it. There was nothing left, now.

_ “Yeah, I thought so,”  _ Tomiko said after a long, speechless minute.  _ “Good. Sounds like you’re finally ready to listen.” _

He didn’t hear anything she said — it all just echoed in his head over and over.  _ They dropped you. Like you were nothing. Morals. Nothing.  _

_ Nothing. _

_ You are nothing.  _

He was nothing. This was — it was his — his career, identity, life, his  _ claim —  _ he owned it, it was his, the only thing that was his, it was done, for now, for morals, for  _ good,  _ for  _ nothing, nothing —  _

A snap. On the other end of the phone, Tomiko snapped her fingers. He could hear it as clear as if she were in the room. 

_ “I’m not going to repeat myself again, Kise. Are you listening to me or not?” _

“Yes,” he replied, automatic, not able to manage more than that single sound. 

_ “I’m sending you the severance paperwork the moment I get into the office. Sign it tonight, or you’ll be losing a lot more than your contract.”  _ There was a pause.  _ “Understand?” _

His voice was thick enough to taste when he responded. “Loud and clear.”

He hung up before she could say another word, tossing the phone onto the furthest part of the sofa. His ears rung in the silence that followed, pulse thudding with a hard suck and press to his eardrums. 

He rubbed a hand over his chin, his lips, fingers curling until the bones pressed through his skin, into his teeth. 

So, everyone was giving up on him, just like that.

The tear ran over his knuckles, seeping between his fingers to fall over his mouth. His breath sounded wet with every pass, too fast. Another tear followed, sinking down the side of his nose. 

He could still feel the leather of the chair in Isao’s office, unyielding and unkind. He could still hear the door slam shut in Aomine’s apartment. 

He caught the sob before it fully materialized, turning it into a choked breath he clamped behind teeth. Water dripped from his chin in an artless fall. He wiped his face with his whole palm, clenched his shaking jaw. 

“Hey,” Kaito said, moving closer from the island. Kise held up a hand to stop him. 

“I’m” — the word instantly dissolved — “I’m gonna go get ready, and” — he sucked in a breath — “we can go.”

He could see Kaito halt in the corner of his eye. “Where?”

Kise huffed a sticky, guttural laugh. “Literally anywhere else.” He stared up, unseeing, wiping beneath his eyes. “Okay? Can we just go do stuff?”

“Yeah.” Kaito cleared his throat. “Yeah, of course. Just say the word.”

Kise didn’t move. He sat there, folding in his breaths, until he finally saw Kaito give and patter off down the hall. Down, down, down the hall, all the way until his footsteps were too far to hear. The door shut in the distance, gentle, offering permission. But Kise did not take it. 

His eyes found the pool outside again. The sun was starting to rise now, and it softened the shape of himself in the window. 

_ Nothing,  _ his mind whispered to him, the word curling like smoke around him.  _ Don’t forget.  _

He tolerated another moment of it, the stagnant tension as hard and forceful as a magnet — and then he stood, taking it with him all the way to his own room. 

The door stayed barely open behind him. 

+

Kaito drove him down the coast. Hills, houses, rocks and trees flew past them in big, dry curves; the seawater that sat outside Kise’s window was a sunny gray-blue, thin and foamy. Steady. He rolled down his window, the wind huge and buffering as the noise of it filled the car, the  _ whoosh  _ pressing in his ears, the sweep of it threading and shaking his hair in tangling kitetails. The world felt a little bigger, for a little while.

Kaito parallel parked and guided them along a pier, where they walked among the bustle in silence. Contemplatively, on Kise’s part; the morning winked against the waves, glossing each one as they crawled toward the sand. It’d been a while since he’d been to the coast — during the day, at least. He recognized this pier from movies, its ferris wheel high and looming against the sky.

“Wanna go take a look?” Kaito asked, doing a great job of matching Kise’s slower stride. Kise shook his head, sparing a glance at the rusted sign directing them toward the amusement park. 

“No, I’m fine.” There were enough people around them to make the air press at his shoulders — the morning commute. “I don’t think it’s open yet, anyway.”

“Ah. Good point.” He moved closer to Kise when some pushy guy in tight slacks tried to walk between them. “How about some coffee?”

Kise could feel the exhaustion weighing at the rims of his eyes. “Yeah, coffee sounds nice.”

They walked and walked, an unspoken desire not to stop until the crowd had thinned, and an excuse to look at the scenery. Palm trees lined the street like giant dandelions, tall and reedy. There were cafés and eclectic window displays and murals whirling along slabs of brick. There were almost as many happy, panting dogs on leashes as there were people walking them. Kise noticed it all, and felt none of it. 

His mind wandered further with every step. What was the meeting like, when it was decided he was out of a contract — did they even have a meeting? Was he worth one? Or was it just that easy to glance at Kise’s faults, his paltry statement to the press, and decide for him that he was finished? 

_ Morals.  _ The fucking morals clause, back to haunt him. What was less ethical: kissing a friend on the cheek, or kicking your top earner to the curb once he no longer fit your clean, charming, flawless cultivation of the brand?

He could go independent, surely. Book things through Isao and Tomiko, once things calmed down for good. Some magazine spreads to boost him back up, and then covers, and someone would realize the treasure he was when they saw it, drifting aimlessly in the water around his island, and snatch it for themselves. Because he was golden-boy KISE. He was the person everyone wanted, cheered for, loved and adored. He was the one. 

But as he was, he was wrong. He was filthy. And that would never be good enough to land him anywhere, anymore.

His stomach turned over itself, acid rolling in his gut. 

“There.” Kaito pointed to a large, modern set of windows on the corner, adorned by vines against the concrete that housed them. A chalkboard scratched with color sat sweetly by the open door. “Let’s go.”

Dutifully, because he was too tired to be anything else, Kise followed. Kaito let him step in first, right behind the line of several people waiting to order. It was glaringly sunny in here. The espresso machines hissed loudly from the other side of the counter. 

“You want your usual?” Kaito asked, pocketing his phone. “Or something different?”

Kise hummed absently, dragging his sleeves over his wrists. Their black-and-white stripes stretched to loose waves when he held on with his fingers. “Something sweet. Like,  _ super  _ sweet, and embarrassingly sugary. Something a kid would drink.”

Kaito smiled, his cheek dimpling. “That can be done.” He looked behind them, toward the patio outside. “Wanna go sit down? I won’t be long.”

“Mm...no. I’ll stay.” Kise smoothed a covered palm over the hat on his head, his gut curling. 

“Sure.”

He was hoping that was it, for now; he wasn’t really in the mood to talk. Or think. Among other things. But of course: Kaito.

“So...your friend from the other day.” He cleared his throat. “Was that...was that Kagami Taiga? From the Clippers?”

Kise’s eyes shot fully open. “Kaitocchi!” He smacked him on the arm. “Did you seriously background check my hangout?”

To no one’s surprise, Kaito’s cheeks went red. “No! No, I didn’t.”  _ This time  _ went unspoken. “I watch NBA basketball all the time. I thought you knew that.”

“Oh.” Kise pouted suspiciously. “Right.”

There was no telling what Kaito knew about Kagami. His personal life. Was it public? Kise couldn’t imagine that it wasn’t. He kept his rings around his fucking neck.  _ Shit.  _ He should have thought to look — before even going over to his house, like a joke.

“Kise, honestly. He’s amazing. People say all the time that he’s the next LeBron.”

The sincerity in Kaito’s tone brought Kise back from spiraling, for the moment. He thought about those magazine covers, the big splatter of articles about him just from a quick search. The backpack full of imported bath oil from the market full of celebrities. Interesting. But the shame from Saturday’s mishap came crawling up again behind the curiosity, and he scratched it back down his neck with half-bitten fingernails. 

“It’s crazy that you know him. Did you play on the same team, back in the day?”

“Oh,  _ hell  _ no,” Kise answered, not helping a little laugh. “He was an animal. A bull in a china shop. My team was…” A thin smile touched his lips. “We were good. Straightforward and smart, and all about strategy. Not to mention handsome and popular.”

Kaito smiled too, with his eyes. “That sounds like you.”

Kise’s mouth turned sly, and then slack. There was a feeling that always, always came with remembering high school — the unending challenge of yearning, and the fire that swallowed it whole. He inhaled deeply through his nose. 

“What teams do you like?” he asked, aiming for airiness in his tone. “Or follow, I guess.”

“Hmm…” Kaito thought seriously about it as they stepped forward, the line before them thinning. “Well, obviously the Clippers. The Lakers, not so much anymore. The Celtics were my favorite for a long time. Still love ‘em. Oh, and the Bulls. Uh...hm…who else...”

“What about the Pistons?”

Kaito’s face, forever so serious, went funny and crooked. “What about them?”

Kise twisted the hoop in his earlobe. “Are they good?”

“I...I mean...ah, well, they’re kind of a joke, to be completely honest.” Poor, nice man, never liking disappointing him. “They’ve fallen off the radar for a good while now. No real standout players.” 

Kise shifted, processing. Huh. That was...unexpected. Before he could ask for elaboration, though, Kaito held a finger up, remembering something. 

“Actually, there is one guy they signed a couple of years ago who’s not so bad. Used to play for the Knicks, and he was great then, but he was traded to Detroit.” Musing, he added: “Oh! And he’s Japanese. I think his name was — ”

“Next,” came the impatient command from the counter. Kise felt himself jump a bit, jarred. 

He didn’t need the name. Anyone with half a mind would get it. 

Kaito ordered him some obscene confection, as he wished; he was itching vaguely, suddenly, so he took that offer to wait outside. He was too restless to sit, so he hid beside some large, deeply green plant, his back against the concrete wall. And he breathed. A long moment passed.

_ Things change, y’know. _

He could still see the heady sharpness of Aomine’s eyes when he said it. And then he remembered his own words, about himself:  _ a fall from grace.  _ A bit too uncanny. He felt...he felt weird. Too much information, not enough bandwidth to understand it. 

He could hardly understand anything — the touch of those hands on his skin, after all these years. The tongue in his mouth, dragging against the back of his teeth. The hard thrusts against him, into him; the hand tight in his hair, unyielding and deliriously rough. The  _ want,  _ everywhere, from both sides of the equation. Unmistakably clear. And for  _ what?  _ Why?

It had to be wishful thinking. It always was. 

“Here.” Heavy, pliable cold against his fingers. Automatically, they embraced the large cup, the light beige liquid inside. There was a dome lid full of whipped cream and caramel.

Kise turned to Kaito, resisting the urge to tackle him in a hug, like he usually would. “You’re  _ literally _ the best, oh my god.”

There came that eye smile again — rare, but familiar all the same. “I hope you like it. There’s at least four pumps of vanilla in there, if the barista understood me correctly.”

The sip Kise drew through the paper straw was tooth-rottingly sweet. It was overwhelming enough to direct all his thoughts and senses to the taste alone. Absolute perfection.

“Mmm,” he sang, pleased, and trotted over alongside his favorite bodyguard, who slid his plain old sunglasses back over his eyes and drank his hot coffee.

“Where to now?” 

“I dunno,” Kise replied frankly, licking the fluffy cream off the top of the cup. “Let’s just keep walking.”

So they did. The sugar had him in a better mood — it helped him shove all the other thoughts behind the door for the moment, and try to take in his surroundings without the haze of bone-deep fatigue. The trees lining the sidewalks in long steps. The wild purples and greens of paint on buildings, on medians, on houses. Birds and women and fruit rendered in brilliant sunset colors everywhere he looked. People jogging, or on their phones, or smoking, all staying at a good distance from him and each other. It was...decent.

They stepped into a few stores with doors swung open for breezy entry. Kise wasn’t in the mood to buy anything, but it was nice to look — clothes, knickknacks, local art. Most of it was very tacky, very American; some of it was beachy and mellow, trendy in a subtle way. He tried to picture what he’d keep and sell in a store of his own. Perhaps clothes and jewelry. Or maybe he would open a bakery, if he ever learned to make any edible food. 

There was a cool creative supply store he saw on the opposite corner of one crosswalk, and he tugged Kaito’s sleeve to direct them there. Kise had never been an artist, but like any good aesthetic icon, he loved cute pens and notebooks and everything like it. Besides, maybe he could get a coloring book, or some shit. At least it’d keep him entertained.

They approached the open door, only to be interrupted by another person leaving at the same time. There was some very large bag they were holding, about as wide as they were tall. Kaito, likely instinctually, took a light hold of his arm to keep him from colliding with it. 

“Thanks again, David,” the person said, in English, and then turned back to face where they were walking. “Oh, excuse me.”

Kise froze. This could not be happening. 

Surprised, and evidently so, Himuro Tatsuya moved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. They were pretty designer glasses, decorative, attached to a delicate gold chain that draped around his neck. He adjusted the oversized bag on his shoulder, tipped his head in study. 

“Kise? Is that you?” There was no denying it. Kise wished he’d been in the frame of mind to wear his wig, or something besides this stupid, simple hat, but alas. Himuro laughed behind his hand. “Oh, wow. What are the odds?”

Kaito, who he could tell was baffled, stared between the two of them. He was most definitely thinking the same thing as Kise: how the  _ hell  _ did this keep happening?

“Himuro-san.” Kise’s tone was resigned. Edgy. But polite. “Hi.”

“How bizarre,” Himuro continued, his voice smooth, lowly melodic, his Japanese all slinky and nuanced. “First you run into Taiga, and now it’s my turn.”

“Haha. LA is a lot smaller than I realized, I guess.” It was all Kise could manage. His heart had leapt into his throat. Kaito’s presence beside him felt like gasoline on a bonfire.

“I’ll say.” Himuro’s long, thin fingers played with the rings laying against his collar. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“Oh, just sightseeing.” Either it was the coffee or the fake grin, but Kise’s teeth were starting to ache.

“Hm. Good idea. There’s certainly more personality here than in Malibu.” Himuro peered over at Kaito, his stare nothing short of assessing. “Who’s this?”

“Yamamoto Kaito.” A compulsory bow before assuming his normal posture. All three of them were tall, within just an inch or two of each other. “I’m Kise’s bodyguard.”

Himuro smiled, and there was clearly some joke Kise was missing. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Himuro Tatsuya. I believe you’ve met Kagami Taiga, my — ”

“We’re friends from high school, too.” The interjection was loud and firm. Kise knew it wasn’t subtle, but it’d done its job; Himuro’s mouth sat open, but silent. “We used to compete in basketball, even though Himuro-san graduated first.”

“I see,” Kaito said, visibly confused but also more comfortable for the topic. “Do you still play?” He gave Kise a friendly nudge. “Another NBA friend?”

“Oh, dear god, no,” Himuro said, chuckling with a practiced ease. “I put my sneakers up a long while back. I’m an artist now, local to LA — though I grew up on the other side of town.” And then came a sharpness in his gaze, thin as a knife, just as silver, directed at Kise. “With Kagami, of course.”

“No coincidence we ran into you here, then.” Kaito tipped his coffee cup toward the sign above the art store door. “Are any of the murals around here yours?”

Himuro blinked slowly, returning his attention to the spoken conversation. “Mhm. The dragon, on that ramen shop a few blocks back. It’s a bit abstract compared to others here, maybe, but it’s one of my more well-known works.”

Kise could practically see the stars in Kaito’s eyes. Hilarious, because the man had met a million celebrities over the past few years he’d been working for him, but apparently some old acquaintances from school were far more exciting than award-winning actors and singers. No one seemed to be immune to Himuro. Kise had forgotten a lot of things about high school, but certainly not that. He’d been popular with everyone —  _ everyone —  _ in a way Kise had to work to achieve.

“I’m just about to head back to my home studio, actually. I was planning to have a late breakfast on the patio after dropping this canvas off.” Himuro gently ran his hand over the black bag against him. “You’re both welcome to join me, if you like. I have a new piece I’m working on for a movie set. I’m sure it’d appreciate some fresh eyes.”

Kise’s hand was damp and slippery around his coffee cup. He opened his mouth, fumbling for words. 

“Oh, I — that’s alright — ”

“That’d be wonderful,” Kaito answered at the exact same time. “I have some errands to run, but I’d be happy to drop you both off on my way.”

Kise’s blood ran cold.  _ Oh my god.  _ Traitor!

“How sweet,” Himuro lilted. “But I’m accounted for. Why don’t you two go peruse the store for a minute, and I’ll have my driver pull the car around. We can take you back to your car as well, Yamamoto-san.”

“I appreciate it, but I’m just fine. You two go ahead.” Oh, that pleased expression on his face. Kise was going to  _ murder him,  _ right here, in broad daylight.

“If you insist.” Himuro gestured to the street, eyes back on Kise. “Shall we?”

Suddenly the rental house didn’t seem so somber. He would have paid a million dollars to go home and crawl back in bed, sleep off the rest of the day. Maybe the week, or the year. Or whenever he was offered a  _ just kidding, we love you _ from his modeling agency.

No, though. No. He’d promised Kaito he’d do better, even if he was the single worst person he knew right now. Going back to the house now meant falling right back into the hole. And even if he thought he wanted that — even if the darkness was the most tempting thing in the world — he didn’t really want it at all.

“Yep,” he said after a pause long enough to fall just shy of awkward. “Just gimme one _ tiny _ sec. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Of course.” Himuro stepped away, but not before giving a slim, easy wave to Kaito, the chain from his glasses shimmering as he moved. “Pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise.” Kaito had the nerve to stare after him with friendliness, like some kind of honor had been lavished upon him. The second their company was out of earshot, Kise whirled on him.

“Okay — what the _fuck_ was that! Why did you set me up!” He nearly sloshed his drink all over Kaito’s sensible athletic shirt. _“Ugh,_ I hate you so much right now, Kaitocchi, I can’t believe you. I’ll never forgive you for this.”

Kaito, patient as ever, just patted him on the shoulder. “You can kill me when you get home, promise.” His expression softened. “But you had a rough morning. You should catch up with an old friend, do something a little different.” He slid Kise’s phone into the little striped pocket on his baggy shirt — which of course he’d brought, because Kise hadn’t. “Call me when you need me to come get you. Doesn’t matter if it’s in an hour or it’s tomorrow morning.” 

Kise felt something well in his chest, a morsel of fondness. He sucked on the inside of his lip. “Alright, fine. I might forgive you a little.” He flicked one of Kaito’s big bodyguard pecs. “But don’t get cocky in the meantime. One more strike and we’ll be planning your funeral.”

Kaito smiled enough that his straight white teeth showed. “Noted. See you later, alright?”

“‘Kay.” He swiveled back around, took a breath. He took a sip of his coffee, thinned a little from melted ice, but hardly any less sweet. That same fondness surfaced again, almost enough to smother the nerves. Maybe one of these days, Kaito would finally realize how much he spoiled him. 

In the meantime, Kise wouldn’t say a word. He started walking after Himuro, right on down the sunny sidewalk, back into the unknown.

+

Deja vu was not a feeling Kise enjoyed. Ever. Stepping into Kagami’s house in the daylight — which, of course, was also Himuro’s house — plunged him in the feeling like a bunch of blanching greens. Kise toed off his flat sneakers by the doorway, which was much neater now that ten other people’s shoes weren’t piled on top of each other. 

It’d been a fairly quiet ride over. Mostly because it hadn’t been too terribly long. Regardless, Himuro was confident now, same as he had been at dinner nights before: the perfect host, happy to preen and show off. 

The house was enormous, something Kise had assumed, but hadn’t yet experienced, limited as he was to those common spaces from the party. The ceilings in every room were tall and vast; windows lined most of the outer walls, bringing light and warmth to all the creamy paint and tastefully large sitting furniture. They had two indoor gyms, multiple guest rooms, offices, a live-in suite for their house manager that didn’t look too lived-in. Their own bedroom was striking: shades of burgundy, slate, and black among more clean white. Everything elegant and intentional, but bold. The synthesis of their personalities. Part of him wanted to see Kagami in the space — a bigger part of him never wanted to think about Kagami and a bedroom in the same context ever again. 

He did wonder about them, though. How they fit into this space together. But he stopped himself at the end of that thought, focusing on the way the sunlight spilled into every nook and cranny of this place, so different from any home he’d ever lived or stayed in. He considered whether that was something he would want, and didn’t land on an answer.

There was art everywhere. Most of it not Himuro’s, but it was brilliant nonetheless, full of movement and meaning, and obviously curated with a thoughtful hand. Every room looked like something out of an editorial because of it. Even the studio —  _ especially  _ the studio, in fact, where Himuro’s art stood beautifully against each wall, whether hung up or leaning from the ground. There were tarps spread across the wood floor covered in thick swaths of color, a gradient that shifted from piece to piece. Glass tables served as both storage and mixing boards for paint. His newest canvas was huge, blank, set perfectly center the biggest easel in the room; it was picturesque in front of the window, behind which the sea stretched infinitely. 

It was all luxurious. A dream. Some part of Kise panged with envy — a craft was a craft, and he knew an authentic master of it when he saw one. He was one himself. Or — he had been. Now he was just…

_ Nothing.  _

“This one,” Himuro said, pointing a finger stacked with rings at a longer canvas. “The one I mentioned earlier, for the movie. It’s supposed to be some kind of family drama where the dining room is featured for the majority of the film. This will be behind the head of the table, so it needs to be subtle, but eye-catching at the same time. Deeply evocative.”

Kise nodded, sipping his sparkling water. It was only about halfway gone — it was bitter compared to his drink from earlier, but it was still refreshing. Himuro’s art style was just what he’d described: eye-catching, but simple; evocative and abstract. More than what met the eye. The longer you stared, the more you noticed in the details. This painting was no exception: it gave the feeling of looking at the surface of water from underneath, cool black vines reaching upward toward the light. 

“It’s beautiful,” Kise said simply. He skimmed a finger over his mouth, thinking, and not sure what compliment could do it justice. “It’s aesthetically pleasing, but...fluid. Like it would look different depending who sat in front of it.”

Himuro raised a graceful brow. “Hm. That’s what I was going for, actually.” He tilted his head, eyes roaming the piece in lengthy sweep. “It’s refreshing to have actual feedback. Taiga usually just says something like,  _ uhh, it’s pretty. Nice job.” _

Kise had to laugh at the low, rough tone Himuro used to imitate him. “Sounds about right. Kagamicchi doesn’t really have a way with words, does he.” 

There was a quiet beat after that, unexpectedly. He scrambled to think of another thing to say about the painting, wondering if that was what Himuro was waiting for. 

“Can I ask you something?”

Kise blinked, looking over to find what seemed like a friendly gaze. The sunlight didn’t get through the dark sweep of Himuro’s bangs, however, and it kept his eyes shrouded. Alarms sounded in Kise’s head. His nerves tingled.

“Um...what’s up?”

Himuro’s finger dragged the two rings along the curved line of his necklace. “Does it bother you, what Taiga and I am? Because I can’t tell if you’re trying to fuck my husband, or if it just makes you uncomfortable that we’re gay.”

He stared, waiting for a response. But the floor had opened up beneath Kise, dropping him mercilessly into freefall.

“S-sorry, what — ”

“Oi, Tatsuya.”

Like a pair of birds, both of their heads flicked to the door. There stood Kagami, grimacing, hands gripping the top of the frame. He filled up the entire doorway. Kise didn’t even know he was  _ here.  _ The blood drained from his face. 

“What?” Himuro replied, austere. Nothing else.

Some unspoken conversation happened between the two of them for a split second. The tension in the room was suffocating. Paralyzing. 

But then Kagami swooped his hands down from above, and walked into the room like it wasn’t there. 

“Quit it.” He poked Himuro’s forehead, who made a big show of wincing. And then he leaned down the couple of inches it took to kiss the spot. “Swear to god, I’m gonna have to start keeping you on a fuckin’ leash.”

“Mm, I’m not opposed,” Himuro murmured, hands immediately finding a place on Kagami’s arm and chest. Their matching jewelry shone in the window light.

Kagami, either willfully ignoring or entirely oblivious, looked over at their guest. “Sorry, Kise, he does this to everyone.” 

“Not  _ everyone, _ ” came the passive-aggressive mumble.

The whiplash had Kise at a loss for words. He had to scramble for them like a toppled bag of groceries. “No, it’s — it’s fine.”

Had the question been an old wound, or a direct attack? He couldn’t be sure — and with Himuro’s sharp, slinking way at the helm of it, he may never know. All he could think of, suddenly, forcefully, was Harada Sara. How many times he’d explained his feelings to her and her husband, not a single of them anything to worry about. How it was starting to seem that he would always end up here — trapped in the cycle of naive attraction and false security, only to be forced back into loneliness. He watched Himuro nuzzle into Kagami’s cheek, and a sick trickle of jealousy pooled in his stomach. Not for what they had — but for what they didn’t. 

“All done with Riko?” Himuro asked his husband, his expression slightly kinder now. 

“Yup. She left after the run, ‘n I wanted to change before heading back out. I didn’t even know you guys were here.” He extended a fist toward Kise. “Good to see you again, dude.”

“Oh.” It took Kise a second too long to realize he was supposed to bump it. “Yeah, you too, Kagamicchi.”

“What time is practice over?”

Kagami looked back to Himuro. “Same as always. I probably won’t have time to make dinner, though, sorry. I know I promised.”

Himuro’s face went flat in record time. “What did I tell you about cooking on practice nights, Taiga.”

“Ugh, I  _ know, _ babe, but I  _ want  _ to — ”

“No! You never go into the sauna room like I tell you to, and then your back seizes up, and you — ”

“That was  _ two times,  _ I can still make a damn chicken — ”

“No. Uh-uh. I’m picking something up. Final answer, end of story.”

Kagami scrunched his nose up, clearly displeased. “You don’t even know what I want.”

Himuro scoffed. “Please. I always know what you want.”

There was a moment of obstinate reluctance, and then the slowest, dopiest smile came to Kagami’s face, honeying all the angles of his features. “Yeah, ha. You do.”

His husband rolled his eyes, but a smile slipped through the veneer. Kagami grabbed his face with an ungentle hand. 

“I gotta go.” He planted a firm, stern kiss on Himuro’s mouth. “Be good.”

Himuro could have been pouting, but it was hard to tell with his mouth smushed that way. “Maybe if you actually answered me when I texted you — ”

“Aw, god, not this again.” His eyes met the ceiling, and then landed back on Kise. “Hey, Kise, do me a favor, will you? Make sure he stays out of trouble ‘til I get back. And tell him not to blow up my phone, ‘cuz I never remember to text back, and then he gets all — yep, don’t look at me like that, you fucking do. Pissy.”

Kise laughed, the sound discordant and awkward. “Sure thing.”

“Let’s hang out soon, too. It’s crazy that you’re here, man. You left the party too early.”

_ Don’t remind me.  _ He nodded emphatically, going for cheerful. “Yeah, anytime. I’ll be around for a while, I think.”

“Cool.” And then he literally threw deuces. “Peace.”

Himuro crossed his arms. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Kagami peeked back from the doorway, grinning like a puppy. “Love you.”

Finally, there it was: a genuine smile, however small, from Himuro. “Love you too.”

Kagami’s footsteps were so clear down the hall, it was a wonder they hadn’t heard his arrival. Kise sipped his water, attempting not to gulp down the half-fizzing rest. His throat had gone dry enough that he nearly coughed as he swallowed.

Just the two of them, again. Staring at the paintings, and not each other. Kise didn’t even know where to start. He felt like he needed to apologize — but for what, he genuinely wasn’t sure. 

“I’m sorry,” Himuro said, and Kise startled, the words picked directly from his brain. He could tell there was mild horror on his face as he glanced at him. 

“For what?” he asked. The bluntness? The congeniality? The public display of affection? The invitation to come here at all?

“I’m not a good person, but Taiga is. I have this...instinct to protect him. Sometimes it’s irrational, sometimes not.” His eyes flickered up, daring to be ashamed. “We’ve been through a lot together, and I don’t always believe in good intentions.” He put his elbows in his hands, hugging himself, the heavy knit of his sweater sleeves bunching in his palms. “But you’re his friend, and I knew you back before either of you could even call it a friendship. I should know better. It wasn’t fair to ask you that.”

Kise didn’t know what to say to that. He felt small, still, and admonished in a way that didn’t always disappear with words. Deja vu: the night after the first article broke. He wished the floor would swallow him up again, but slower this time, more fully, submerging him until he was ready to come up for air. 

“I know why you’re here, in LA,” Himuro said plainly, more gently than he probably intended. “Is it true?”

Kise felt his airway clench. Felt the weight of the past month on his shoulders all at once, threatening to crumple him. He’d been asked this question a thousand times — by Isao, by Tomiko, by fans and friends and whoever else had sent him a text, just wanting the gossip more than anything substantial or personal. But he’d never been asked by someone who was sorry.

His hands shook when he crossed his arms, protecting himself. He wondered what it meant to confess, what he was giving up. There wasn’t much left. 

“No,” he said after a dense silence. “The affair, it’s — it’s not true.”

He looked up at Himuro, right into those all-seeing eyes, their irises the color of gunpowder. All he could do was will him to understand.  _ Please,  _ he tried to transmit, soundlessly. _ You have to know.  _

Himuro stepped forward, contemplative. Kise resisted the urge to step back and keep the same distance. He didn’t move — not even when Himuro laid a hand on his arm, a bare warmth through the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Can I hug you?” he asked Kise quietly, like a suggestion. “Would that be alright?”

It didn’t even have to be asked. Kise was nodding before he had even finished the question, his chin trembling with the effort it took to stay composed.

Kise was just a little taller than Himuro; it gave him his shoulder as the perfect place to rest his head once those slender arms wrapped around him. It was almost embarrassing how deeply he was shaking. He didn’t want to fall apart here, but  _ god,  _ it’d been forever since he’d felt this way, since he’d been offered this simple kindness. He was dangerously close to breaking, especially when he felt Himuro’s hand calm at the center of his back, the rings on his fingers like little anchors. 

He didn’t touch Himuro, didn’t embrace him — just leaned his weight into him, hid himself in his neck with a dampness he was doing everything to contain. Neither of them said a word, but Kise found himself wanting to.  _ A good person tries,  _ he would’ve said.  _ A better person knows when to.  _

Unfortunately, the moment didn’t last. There was a distant ruckus from downstairs. 

_ “Babe!”  _ came the echo of Kagami’s voice.  _ “Delivery’s here! I put it on the counter!”  _ Then there was the brief chirping of the alarm system, and a closing of a door, nice and final. Himuro sighed. 

“Of course he’s still here,” he whispered, long-suffering but with a buoyant edge. He gave a pat to the shoulder blade beneath his palm, then let himself recede, moving his hand briefly to Kise’s salt-stained cheek. “That’s our food. Go out to the porch, and I’ll meet you there.”

Kise gave him a pressed-lip smile, grateful. Himuro left the room with a casually postured pace, allowing the privacy. 

Kise had to lean over so he wouldn’t fall. He pressed his face to the cool skin of the wall, catching his breath. 

He’d cried too much today, even if it was just a few escaped tears. He hated it. And it fucking hurt. 

Himuro knowing changed things, but he didn’t really understand how.  _ Everyone  _ knew, but this was — different. The fear was close to gone, now. He wanted to trust him with it, with the intimacy of the moment, but he knew better than that. He’d learned it much more than once.

It would be fine. He would have to make sure of that.

+

  
  


Brunch on the patio was nothing short of lovely. The manicured balcony, the hush of the ocean, the warmth of the sun. Blood-orange mimosas and cool avocados; fat slices of crusty bread with tart, creamy cheese; quiche with egg as yellow as buttercups; smoked salmon all briny and lucious, melting on his tongue. The conversation was as indulgent as the food — Himuro’s success as a social media influencer had taken him to more countries than Kise had ever visited, even on fan tours. Not to mention that he had the freedom as a self-made star to have much wilder, richer stories than Kise could as a contracted celebrity: no drugs, no sex, no rock-and-roll, and certainly no being yourself.

He knew he’d fallen under Himuro’s charming spell for that very reason. He hadn’t realized how  _ tense  _ he’d been around him until he wasn’t anymore; until he’d been given the space to feel, and it was returned with a delicate balance of peace and patience. A willing ear. All so incongruent with its cool, smooth exterior, its artful refinement and coy smile. 

It was the best time he’d had in — well, since the beginning. It made him not want to leave, especially as the sun got lower in the sky, melting the blue shades into the first blushes of pink. But he remembered the domestic scene from earlier: Kagami would be home in the evening, wanting to share dinner in this same spot, probably. To look lovingly at the way the slight breeze tousled his husband’s inky hair, and delight in a little shared time at the end of the day. And besides, Kise had...paperwork to do. 

Himuro had sent him off with his phone number, a promise to do this again sometime, and a squeeze to the hand that had Kise feeling something a little like hope.  _ My driver will take you wherever you want to go.  _

He set a course for Malibu, knowing he needed to text Kaito for the address,  _ again,  _ because he still didn’t know it. He slid into the leather of the backseat, closed the door, and powered up his phone. 

Texts came rolling in, as they always did. He looked out the window at the neighborhood palm trees and properties until the buzzing stopped, leaving only the resulting tingle of his fingers in its wake. And then he inhaled, stilling his breath, and took a look at what waited.

Old push notifications for apps. A couple of texts. Emails, emails, emails. 

Tomiko’s sat right at the top of the screen. 

His first instinct was to delete it, but that would be a mistake. His second instinct was to pout, and fight, and kick, throw a tantrum about how unfair it all was. But they were past that now, and he needed to accept it.

Fuck it. Now or never. Waiting would only make it worse. 

The contract took a minute to load — the file size was hefty. Figures. No stone would be left unturned, as they burned him at the stake. 

Rationality had him pausing for a brief second. He should call his lawyer before touching this, shouldn’t he? 

His feelings took back over. No, no. These people didn’t want him, so he wouldn’t return the favor by wanting them back. He didn’t have much, but he did have his pride.

Electronic signatures were a miracle. Click, click, swipe — a little bit of light reading along the way, namely about  _ the party at fault.  _ He was sure Isao and Tomiko had picked through this thing with a fine-toothed comb, making sure they weren’t at fault in any way — but also that Kise came out of it as clean as he could be. He was the one paying them at the end of the day; that had to mean something.

He finished it with damp palms and a churning stomach, and made sure to send Tomiko a confirmation text so there’d be no more calls. About this, anyway. And then he was done. 

That was it: six years in, six minutes out. Contract terminated.

He didn’t want to think about it. He might end up with another case of alcohol poisoning. A little tequila sounded quite good at the moment — he could drink it poolside, until the fireflies came out, and then accidentally drown himself in the pool.

Ah, yes — the address. He opened his texts.

Ones from Tomiko were the most recent. Of course. But then there was a number he didn’t recognize. An American one. And it couldn’t have been Himuro — it was from this morning, before they’d exchanged info. Perplexed, and a little worried, he clicked. 

_ Kise,  _ it started shortly,  _ it’s Aomine.  _

His pulse stopped in its tracks. 

_ Got your num from Kagami, which took forever, so...w/e. but I needed to say something. _

Oh, no. Here it came: the regret, the second-guessing, the venom. He tugged at his earlobe, making himself continue.

_ When I left the other morning i was 2 hrs late for training. I forgot i even had it that day. Im already on kinda thin ice from other stuff, so i knew i would get a lot of shit for being even 10 min late. I realized id left without warning and felt like a fuckin asshole. I didn’t have your # either. _

_ That shouldnt have happened. Im sorry. I still need to talk to u, and u left ur necklace here, so lmk if you wanna meet up.  _

Kise blinked, reading it over again. This had to be a prank. Or an impersonator. Aomine had never said he was sorry in his  _ life.  _

But then he looked at the details, the errand correctness of the punctuation, the impatient shortening of words before he tried again. That was Aomine, alright, caustic and strong. His blood began to thaw.

He pushed back behind the memory of the frantic, awful morning at his apartment, back into the deep night and the breath that had filled it. He remembered the way Aomine looked at him, spoke to him, fucked him — the matured tilt to his wolfish smirk, the seasoned cut of his jaw — the inclination, however strenuous, to admit defeat on his way to what he sought. New things, all: a more grown-up Aomine, the old steam-powered selfishness remaining to be seen. 

His curiosity, as always, was dangerous. He knew the tightrope he walked with Aomine. There were no soft landings here: it was life or death, with no in-between.

He took the risk anyway. 

_ Wait…  _ he typed.  _ THE Aomine Daiki is apologizing to me?  _ 😱  _ Did someone bodysnatch you? Blink twice if you’re in there!! _

He sent the message, almost hearing the telltale  _ swoop  _ of it being carried off into cyberspace. His pulse was back in double time, pounding hard in his neck. 

He tried not to expect a response. Surreal as this was, surely it was temporary. He set his phone on the clean black denim of his jeans, balanced precariously on his knee. 

It vibrated.

He snatched it in a wide-eyed nanosecond, pupils glued to the screen. 

_ Very funny, dickhead. _

Oh, Christ, there he was. Kise bit his lip, muffling the inane giggle that bubbled up on his tongue. Dizziness floated behind his eyes. 

_ Do you want  _ he typed, then deleted immediately.  _ Where are you right now? I’m out running errands, so I can meet you for a bit. _

He couldn’t believe this was happening this fast. He could see the chat bubble pop up when Aomine started typing back almost immediately. 

_ Im at home,  _ said the text, and then there was another:  _ Come over. _

Oh, shit.

He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. 

Kise peered up, nearly blinded by the unexpected deluge of sunset beaming through the windshield. He blinked, rubbing his free hand over his twisting chest. 

What else was there to lose?

Nothing.

“Excuse me,” he said to the driver, using his best interview voice. The driver peered at him in the rearview. “I actually need to change direction, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, no problem,” was the reply. He reached for the display on the dashboard, clearing their trajectory, and poised his hand for input. “Where to?”

_ I’ll see what I can do,  _ he typed quickly back, sending it onward.  _ Address? _

  
  


+

  
  


It had started like it always did: as a competition. 

It was the night of their graduation. They’d both had their ceremonies this morning, but then their families had celebrated individually — Kasamatsu’s family had dined with Kise’s, since his former captain’s brother was in Kise’s year. Funny how he’d thought of Kasamatsu as both a senpai and nothing of the sort, made even more evident by a bit of catching up over hamburg steaks and hayashi rice. Kise hadn’t seen most of his older teammates since the summer before, when he’d been named the captain of the Kaijou team. 

It was a nice, nostalgic evening, made even more so by the prospect of a sleepover at Aomine’s. Kise packed his overnight bag and took the subway and bus it took to get there, easy as breathing. There had been a long while where they’d stopped being cordial to each other for the sake of blood on the court, but they’d learned how to appreciate each other again, and old habits die hard. There was a tingling kind of anticipation that came with knowing they were hanging out tonight — there would be video games, and not-so-smuggled beer, and conversation he could only really have with Aomine. Funny shit, but also real shit. It would be a good night. 

And it was good. What started as a ceremonial few hours, trying to make a big deal of the evening, dwindled into existing comfortably together. They were drinking and taking turns beating levels of a Mario game to see who could get a higher score...which, so far, was Aomine’s smug ass. Kise kept losing the level, but insisted on trying until he won; Aomine got fed up with watching, refusing to understand persistence as the uncontested winner, and started flipping through one of his ecchi idol-girl magazines. 

Kise lost again, and pouted openly, scrunching his lips and nose together. “Ugh.”

Aomine just snorted, shaking his head — a wordless  _ I told you so.  _

“Okay, you know what?” Kise tossed the controller on top of the magazine. It landed with a  _ smack  _ to the very large boobs in the picture Aomine was currently studying. “You just got lucky. I bet you can’t do it again.”

“Fuck off,” Aomine immediately retorted, taking the bait as quickly as he did the controller. “You’re just pissed ‘cause you suck shit at this.” The screen faded to black once a few buttons were clicked, and the accursed level music began again.

“Um,  _ no,  _ I’m not.” He stuck his tongue out at Aomine, very maturely, of course. “If Mario would get his shit together instead of making all those dumb little noises, everything would be a lot easier. He’s a grown man!”

Aomine laughed, something he never did in front of other people with sincerity. Kise felt good whenever he heard it — when he  _ got  _ to hear it. It made him feel accomplished. And maybe a little drunker. 

“You’re an idiot. Watch and learn, punk.”

Aomine effortlessly dodged a rogue green shell, making Mario jump buoyantly onto the next platform and right onto a little wobbling creature, flattening it with ease. Kise did not watch, mad that he’d lost, like, six times in the past twenty minutes. He entertained himself instead with the magazine that slid off Aomine’s thighs, right onto the floor between them. 

_ Hi~!  _ The text beside the smiling, airbrushed girl read.  _ I’m Mina! Let’s play  _ _ ♡ _

Brilliantly enough, she was wearing a basketball-themed bikini, balancing her a ball on her ass. Kise rolled his eyes.

“This is just so  _ sad,  _ Aominecchi. These poor girls don’t even get to model. They’re just breaking their backs so pervs like you can jerk off into a sock.” He ran a finger along the unnatural curve of the edited spine. “Her boobs are just big photoshopped blobs, too. Poor Mina.”

Aomine was distracted by the game, but graced him with the holy word anyway: “Tits are tits.”

Kise giggled, feeling silly and wrong, the way he always did when they talked about girls. “Eugh, so  _ crass!  _ Do you kiss Saki-chan with that mouth?”

Aomine stopped smirking immediately. Bit off whatever word he was about to say. “I — shut up.”

Kise’s stomach twitched. And it wasn’t the alcohol. Something was off. He leaned forward, peering up to look at Aomine’s expression: sour, and determined to finish the level he was still on. 

“Shut  _ up,  _ Kise.”

“Ooh, something happened, didn’t it?” Kise tried to temper his tone. He knew that little confession-fueled fling wouldn’t last long, as brash and thick-headed as Aomine was, but it was still…

“Fuck  _ OFF.” _

“Ugh, _ fine.”  _ He pouted, and did so openly, even petulantly crossing his arms to lean himself back against the wall. “You never tell me what’s going on.”

Aomine finished the level successfully, making Mario hoot and holler with joy. And then he just sat there against the wall beside Kise, watching the little Toads dance while the music stopped, waiting for the press of a button. He sighed — growled, really — and tossed the controller with a fed-up causticness. 

“We fooled around, and she…” Aomine’s eyes went dark. “She said I was  _ bad,  _ apparently. And then she said not to text her again, so. Fuck it.”

“Wait,” Kise said, forcing himself to keep up through the sludge of sudden bitterness, rotten as it was. He knew this information was a privilege, one likely only shared between him and Momoi, if shared with her at all. “What d’you mean,  _ bad?  _ Like, what’d you...what did you do with her?”

Another sigh, harsh and long. “She” — a crude jerking motion with his fist — “me, and I, fuckin’” — a cruder wiggle of his fingers — “her. And then we started goin’ at it, so I grabbed her titties, and then she just pushed me off of her, and was like,  _ you suck at this, I’m going home. _ So she just left me there with my dick out, like a dumbass.”

Of all the things Kise could feel about this — of all the things he could see behind his blinded eyes, behind his pinched lips, behind the tipsied flop of his stomach — all he could do was laugh. 

“What.” Aomine sneered at him, glaring.  _ “What.” _

Kise stopped sputtering and mashed his lips together, settling himself. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just...never mind. Show me how you did it, though. I have to see whose side I’m gonna take.”

“Show you?!” One of Aomine’s sharp, heavy brows shot up. “I’m not gonna  _ show  _ you, what the hell — ”

“Just do it, Aominecchi.”

“Just take my side, _ idiot.” _

“Show meeee!” He grabbed Aomine’s forearm and jostled him. Not an easy thing to do, especially when he was mad. 

“God, shut up! You’re so fuckin’ annoying!” He yanked his arm back and went sullen. And then he sighed, acquiescing with a monumental hesitation and a refusal to lose. “It was like…” He blinked, as if trying to manifest Saki’s chest in front of him. “Like — ” one aggressive splat with both hands, followed by two despicable honks.

Kise wailed, dissolving into laughter again. “Oh, Aominecchi, you didn’t! Oh,  _ no. _ No  _ wonder.” _

“What? That’s how they do it in — ”

“Please don’t say porn.”

Aomine grunted. “Well how the fuck do you know what’s so good, then?”

Kise looked coyly to the other side. “Practice.” He was so high from the laughter, so loose from the drinking, and a stupid idea skipped happily into the light. He didn’t even have the mind to stop it. “Here,” he said, decided. “I’ll show you. You can practice on me. All that copying’s made me a good teacher.”

Not only was Aomine offended, but now he was openly skeptical. “How the hell is that gonna help? You’re not a girl.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kise said — because at the end of the day, it really didn’t, did it? “Just try it. I don’t care.”

Aomine looked over at him, some gravity to his callous assessment. “Yeah, whatever. Weirdo.”

“Come on,” Kise said with a slurry of a grin, feeling confident and warm. He could see Aomine’s curiosity and competitive instinct winning out, like it usually did. “It’ll be the embarrassment of my life if this gets out and any girls know I’m friends with you. They’ll wonder why I grace you with my presence at all.”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

Kise turned to face him fully, crouched on his knees. “What, are you scared?”

Either it was a trick of the low light, or the tip of Aomine’s ear was pink. “No.”

Aomine could refuse him, and then this would be a joke. It would be nothing, just Kise being the flirt that he could be, albeit a little misguidedly, easily brushed off by the exhilaration of the night itself and the drinks they’d drunk. That would be fine. Kise would simply laugh and smile.

Or.

Or — he could scoot himself closer, just a little while Aomine stared, considering. He could lean forward on his knees, suddenly feeling the way his own shirt sat against his skin, the muscle in his neck lengthening as he tipped his head to the side, his mouth lifting just so at the corners. Inviting. 

Aomine stared at him. The moment was thick, suspended. But Kise could tell the moment the switch flipped. 

He set down the magazine as if it were made of porcelain, just far enough away from his hip to allow him to pivot toward Kise and look the few centimeters up it took to meet his gaze. 

“What’s there to even grab,” he mumbled, eyes falling to Kise’s chest. Its rise and fall, and what had to be its visible heartbeat. “You’re flat as a fuckin’ board.”

“Use your imagination,” Kise teased, stomach fluttering so rapidly it shimmered with warmth. “Besides, it’s not about  _ what _ , you dummy _ —  _ it’s about  _ how.” _

Aomine raised an eyebrow, cocky — the red around his ears and jaw betrayed him, though. Kise’s smile grew. He lifted his shirt ever so slightly — the barest whisper against his skin, leaving a thin strip exposed in its wake. 

_ What are you doing,  _ he thought to himself. The same thing he always thought when fabric slid against skin, when he was visible in the eyes of another. It was silenced by the warm palm on his hip...and it was not silenced, either, all the same. Aomine’s hand was hot, and forward. Right on his skin. Kise’s breath shuddered.

He pulled his shirt up further, and Aomine’s gaze followed. Kise had to hold his breath entirely this time. Something in him throbbed — some feeling, some part of him, empty as soon as it started to feel full. 

“So, what,” Aomine began, a murmur, “I’m just s’posed to — ”

The expanse of his palm lay right on one side of Kise’s chest, heavy and affronted — and it was a relief, really, because there was a  _ point  _ to this after all, wasn’t there, even if it was a terrible one, and a worse idea to start. A small laugh teemed out of Kise’s nose.

_ “No,  _ Aominecchi, God. Didn’t you learn anything useful from all that porn you watch? From what I literally  _ just _ told you?”

“Hn,” Aomine replied, frowning, and withdrew his hands. Kise tried to smile, to seem confident again, but his teeth just dragged over his lip. 

“Just follow my lead, ‘kay?” he teased, more quietly than he meant to. 

He hooked his own thumbs into the makeshift corners of his hem, dragging them toward his collar. He could feel the prickle of goosebumps wash over his newly exposed skin. Aomine’s dark eyes took in every new inch of it. 

And then, unexpectedly dutifully, he followed his lead: Aomine’s thumb passed over his navel. 

Kise had to swallow down the exhale it elicited. But he — he  _ had  _ to breathe, or else he would suffocate, air and heat rising and trapped inside of him until he burst. So he breathed, even though it was what seemed to be the only sound in the room.

“Subtlety might be impossible for you,” he said. “But it’s essential. You have to build up to stuff or else it won’t be nearly as good.”

“The fuck do you know about it,” Aomine jabbed back. It lacked its usual vigor, though, even in that low, brusque tone. He was concentrated on Kise’s waist, his ribs, thumbs tracing muscle over bone as he slid his palms upward. So  _ warm  _ on either side of Kise, so feather-light in a way Aomine had never been, with anyone. Kise swallowed again, throat beginning to parch.  _ Goosebumps. _

Up, up, up. The ridges of picked calluses dragging along on those hands, a gentle scratch that lit each nerve they passed along. All the way up until they rested right at the underside of Kise’s chest, right where he had stopped his shirt from continuing its ascent. 

“Like this?” Aomine asked, and his voice was like those open calluses: just as quiet, just as rough. Kise’s breath filled the silence — higher, faster with each passing second. 

“Like that,” he replied, barely able to form the words. He lifted the rest of his shirt. “Now pretend I’m Saki-chan. What would you do?”

There was no mistaking how transfixed Aomine was by his exposure. There was a silence that followed his question, and it constricted, quickening his pulse. He could hear it in his ears at this point. 

Aomine’s hand moved then, gently, squeezing the lean layer of muscle on Kise’s chest. 

There was no hiding the way Kise shuddered at the feeling. He was throbbing.  _ Burning.  _ Breathing just to stay alive. But he stayed as still as possible, eyes closed against it, not willing to give up until — until — 

The pad of Aomine’s thumb circled over his nipple, enough to roll it beneath the pressure. The nail scraped the tight skin in its wake. And then it came unchecked, unintentional, unable to be stopped: a soft whine escaped Kise’s throat, floating out into space between them. 

Immediately, Aomine froze.

Kise froze too. 

_ Shit.  _

“Uh,” Aomine stammered, withdrawing his hand. He was staring right through him. 

“Aominecchi,” Kise breathed, His eyes were wide, staring down at Aomine. He did not dare to move. “I-it’s just — ”

“No, I — I gotta — this is stupid.” He gathered his long limbs ungracefully, clambering just enough to be awkward as he moved himself into a crouch. “This is fuckin’ dumb. I’m — gonna go get a soda.” And then he was leaving the room, feet too big to do anything but stomp. 

Kise reeled.  _ What did you do,  _ came the thought again, insistent.  _ Why, why, why, why —  _

His hand landed on the rough floor for balance, nails catching in its tiny, uneven grooves. He bent over himself, which helped to hide the hard, aching center of his lap, the way it showed behind the nylon of his sport shorts. It would be an actual miracle if Aomine hadn’t noticed that.  _ What the hell are you doing?  _ he asked himself. But he didn’t have a clear answer.

_ This is stupid,  _ Aomine had said, the words ringing in the air. He was right; it  _ was  _ stupid. 

By the time he reentered the bedroom, Kise was composed. Pouting, but composed. He didn’t bother to see or figure out how Aomine was faring. It was taking all of his effort just to keep himself steady and pray this didn’t color the entire evening, or its memory. And besides, Aomine would most certainly make it known if he were still angry. The other shoe would drop the moment he opened his mouth.

Kise waited for it, heart pounding in his throat. It was coming, surely. 

But it didn’t. Aomine said nothing. All he did was sit back beside Kise, pick up the controller where it sat abandoned between them, and finish the level without a hitch. 

Things were noticeably off, but they drank beer and soda and played the game long enough to make jabs at each other again. Things were even feeling normal by the time they decided to hit the hay. Maybe it would be forgotten entirely, Kise thought with an almost dopey loop to the notion. 

But then they laid out the futons, and they turned off the lights, and it was densely silent. 

He thought about saying nothing. He did. The part of his brain that  _ cared,  _ though, was yelling at him between his eardrums, and — 

“It was just a joke, by the way,” Kise finally said into the thick, unlit quiet, not sure if caving first was a win or a loss. “No need to get all weird about it.” 

Aomine shifted on his futon, which was barely a foot away but as far as it could be, his back to Kise. “You were the one who got weird about it, making noises ‘n shit.” 

Kise sat up in the dark, stomach lurching. “I was —  _ acting, _ duh. Pretending to be Saki-chan. That was the whole point.” 

“Yeah, I get that, but…” There was a pause, and then a grated sigh. “I dunno. I guess it’d just be different if you were a girl.” 

“Don’t be silly, Aominecchi. You wouldn’t have even  _ done _ it if it were a girl. Probably would have jizzed your pants by the time she sat down next to you.” Kise tried to push down the wall shoving up into his stomach, his chest, his throat, but it didn’t stop. “I was just trying to help — and — it was supposed to be funny, anyway.”

“Help me with what?” Now he glared over his shoulder. Oop. There came that sore spot again. It made Kise a little ill, thinking about how far it’d gotten them. 

“Your lack of  _ experience, _ Aomine _ cchi,” _ he sang, emphasizing each syllable. Trying not to look so fucking  _ bothered,  _ because he was, and it itched beneath every muscle. “You were the one who said — ”

“I know what I said,” Aomine grumbled, pissed. “Doesn’t have shit to do with you, does it.”

Kise almost laughed.  _ No, it most certainly does not.  _

“Whatever.” He flopped back down into bed, pulling the quilt up over his shoulders, even though it was far too humid in this room. “That’s what I get for trying to be a good friend, I guess. Have fun never getting past first base once Saki tells all the other girls at school.” 

Aomine didn’t have much to say to that. He just let it sit there, making Kise’s pulse loud enough to punctuate his exhales. After long enough, Kise wondered if Aomine finally started falling asleep — if those deep breaths were getting longer and less conscious. 

But then: 

“Would you...keep helping me? If I asked?”

Kise’s heart stopped. 

First, he wasn’t sure he’d heard it correctly. There was absolutely no way. But he knew he had, because awkward tension emanated from Aomine’s back like a fucking ooze. 

There were two answers here. 

One: say no, put an end to this stupid little game, and let it get forgotten, buried beneath friendly competition and the upcoming distance of college life. 

Two: feel ridiculous for ever even  _ implying _ you are a  _ good friend,  _ because good friends don’t entertain this kind of bullshit in the first place. They don’t sit up and tilt their head, shocked and thoughtfully so as their eyes rove over the curve of that big, rigid shoulder, and imagine what it would feel like under their nails, instead of saying  _ no.  _

“Duh,” he said instead, aiming for somewhere close enough to practiced, experienced, like he was bestowing an honor. “It’s not like — like it’s real.”

Aomine shifted. And that was the moment where everything was well and truly fucked: Kise could see the relief setting in,  _ ever  _ so slightly, the shoulder settling just enough to make the room feel easier to exist in. A strange, viscous taste bled over his tongue. 

“No one has to know,” he added, just because he felt like he had to, and because it felt like...like the only way this was allowed.

Aomine turned onto his back to face him — and Kise couldn’t really see his face in the dark, not until he sat up and stared long enough to dissolve all the air in Kise’s mouth and throat. 

“C’mere, then,” came the low command, and all the trust in the world with it. “I wanna try something.”

It took a moment of warring with himself — this was the point of no return, and he’d been the one to draw the line. But then, helplessly, like the friend he was, Kise crossed it anyway, and crawled over to the other bed.

  
  


+

  
  


_ Knock knock. Knock.  _ Kise winced at that last uncertain rap of his knuckle, but it was too late to take it back. The fluorescents in the hallway were a little sallow and dingy, and he could see the paint feel around the number on the door. He could hear the steps on the other side, approaching slowly — the pause before the lock turned left him breathless. 

It swung open. Aomine stood there, too big for the space. His neck curved just slightly forward, like he was used to bumping his head on things. He looked at Kise like he’d returned from the dead — strangely perturbed, and laser-focused. Achingly familiar, all the same.

“Hey,” he rasped, then cleared his throat once, sandpaper to his voice. “Come in.”

“Hi,” Kise replied, and stepped inside once there was enough room for him. The door closed behind him with an echoing shove. He swallowed around the dry patch in his throat.

Aomine just looked at him. He was wearing a t-shirt and basketball shorts, which was to be expected, but Kise found himself thinking back to the fitted shirt he’d worn the other night. The way it stretched across his chest. What was underneath it. 

He sniffed, tucking his hair behind his ear.

“What’s behind your back?”

Kise restrained himself from gasping in surprise at the sudden words.  _ Get it together.  _

“Oh, yeah. I borrowed this the other day.” He dangled the hat from his fingers, which Aomine snagged. “Hope you don’t mi~nd.”

Aomine snorted. “You mean stole.”

“Potato, potahto.” His fingers touched consciously at the baby ponytail at the back of his head, the longer strands that had come undone to wisp around his jaw. He waited until Aomine’s eyes were on him again. “So — ”

“Oh, hold up.” He reached into his pocket, jostling the fabric of his shorts. His fist came back seemingly empty until he opened it, offering something. “Found this on the floor. I’m assuming it’s yours.”

That fucking necklace. Kise tried not to go into hysterics at the sight of it, that stupid flat adornment, and only managed not to by the sensation of Aomine’s palm against his fingertips when he took it back. Hot enough to sear. 

Kise traced his thumb over the gold-lined edge of the pendant, just to touch something else. 

“Sorry again, by the way.” Aomine was staring at him already when he looked back up. “That was —”

“Okay, you are  _ seriously  _ freaking me out,” Kise breathed, a humorless laugh on the edge of the statement. “Stop apologizing, Aominecchi. I’m not used to it.”

That seemed to take him a bit aback. He raised an eyebrow. “I...fair enough.”

He didn’t like it, whatever this strange reluctance was. His whole body pulsed with a flush of heat. “Why are you being weird? You’ve never been the type to skirt around shit. Don’t start now.”

Aomine’s eyes flashed up at him. A warning. 

_ There you are.  _

Kise felt his breath shudder. 

“Look. I don’t know...what the  _ fuck  _ you did to me, Kise. I really don’t.” Aomine scrubbed a hand over his eyes and gripped up into his hair in one staggering motion. “The other night, it was like — tunnel vision, or some shit.”

“So it’s my fault, then? Because it sure didn’t feel that way.” 

Aomine was not pleased, and was growing even less so by the second. It came off of him in a thick wave.

“What do you want me to say,” he answered flatly, lowly. “That I regret fucking you? ‘Cause I don’t.”

Kise could feel the heat rising on his skin. The moment that it settled on his face, his lips, between his teeth. 

“Then what?” he asked, the words short on his tongue. “Why did you want me to come back here?”

Apparently, the reason was simple: “To talk.”

“About what?”

This one, it seemed, was not so simple. Aomine stepped closer, like he’d find the answer that way. The entryway was getting claustrophobic and dark. Kise could hear his own breath again, the way it rose faster in his throat. 

“You,” he murmured, eyes heavy enough to chain Kise to the spot. “Something happened eight years ago that made you stop talkin’ to me, and I wanna know what it was.”

Kise moved into the door at his back, attempting to get space, and not finding it.

“Nothing, okay?” He swept his hair back off his neck with bravado, with intention. “I got a big break, and the trade-off was my social life. People fall out of touch, you know; it happened with everyone. And we’re here now, so what’s the point in dwelling on it?” 

Aomine was too close. Kise could smell him, alpine and intoxicating. 

“I don’t believe you,” he said, eyes dragging from Kise’s bared neck up to his face. “But I’ll get it out of you eventually.”

_ No, you won’t,  _ Kise nearly said, but decided better. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t believe you brought me here to  _ talk,” _ he said instead, a whispered threat.

In a flash, a hand was around his throat, pushing him back against the door. Trapping him.

He couldn’t stop the smirk from rising to his mouth.  _ Bingo. _

“You’re a fucking brat,” Aomine snarled, the heat of his breath unfurling like dragon fire. 

“Mm, yeah?” Kise licked it off his lips. “And what are you gonna do about it?”

The hand squeezed enough to make it hard to breathe. 

Kise’s exhale was purely a whine: satisfied, victorious.  Aomine caught it with his mouth, pulling Kise’s lower lip between his own, dragging his teeth in a scrape over the inside.

“Same thing I always do,” he answered, a direct cut through the breathlessness. “Fuck you ‘til you can’t say another damn word.”

Kise groaned, high and reedy. His head tipped back against the door. 

_ Yes. _

He wrapped his legs around Aomine’s waist, one by one. Aomine’s free hand gripped beneath his thigh to support him, even more necessary when they collided in a violent kiss, teeth gnashing and wet against each other’s lips. He was so  _ strong,  _ lifting him like he was weightless, clamping around his neck with a damning heat, handling him like he was worthless. 

Kise had missed this, more than he wanted to admit. He fell into it, willingly this time, not caring what was on the other side of it.

“Please,” he whispered into Aomine’s mouth, the word formless and vague and heavy. But he knew the message was clear, and would be understood: 

_ Take it all from me, all over again. _


End file.
